December 10, 2003

• Under the Vine

   

  It’s the leviathan, weaving her way

  Past rock formations.

  The dean of the cloister,

  The truant officer.

   

  You’ll never catch me,

  See.

   

  The world came forth at the flick of your wrist.

  The word came forth with a sneeze.

  You raised your hand to wipe your brow,

  Life slipped out.

   

  Dogs pant for charity whiffing,

  Sniffing for scraps from your diner.

  It’s the alley that’s living

  And I’m buried behind

  What is

  Read all over –

  A bleeding zebra or a drop

  In an Angeles pail.

   

  Rich but ungrateful,

  I’ll cook hearty in hesitant’s stew.

  I’ll leap with the heat -

  Tasting a smidgeon

  Of sanctification.

   

  Chewed on, hurled on

  A distant shore:
  Learning to live proudly,

  Cosmically asunder. 
  
  ———

  

  ——
  
  a good man

  From a fluffy cloud, black goggled eyes look down.  And expressively frown.

   

  Morning stretch and you’re brand new.  Hair mussed, plastered every which way, you’re awake but for the heavy brown bags that pull your face down, weighted with yesterday’s gloom and doom.

   

  Off to the mines you go, awake at the crack of dawn, looking out a dark window, sipping motor oil, living in the butt of America.  A joke at 7, you were bald at 12.  Born with three precious strands, a little Job born to good grief.  Your youth was lost to the laughter and pointed barbs of friends.

   

  You could’ve been a contender.  You were born of resilience and dreamy hope.  Nobody whiffed a kick as often; you were heroically bad.  Tossing Lucy a nickel, you could’ve heard advice.  But blinded by stars, you pitched a good game, only to have the homerun snot knocked out of you.

   

  Marcy secretly loved you and Patty was butch and Lucy was just beastly.

   

  It’s Monday and you don your hardhat and pull on a striped yellow shirt, all backward.  Life is mean; you woke one morning to find your cattle and children gone.  But you look at the curly redhead, sitting at the table, milk on the stove, sleepy eyes smiling.  She hands you a lunch pail and in the transfer, you wrestle with bootstraps, lifting yourself a little higher.  Lifesavers for rings, walking out of a rusty trailer, you see the sun, the lightness of being. 

   

  Kicking dust on your way to the bus, you whistle a tune Linus once taught you.  Maybe you’ll kick one through the uprights just yet.  Winning is a matter of timing.   

   

  Ears flapping, swooping down from the clouds, a laughing Red Baron proves himself a faithful friend again.

  
  

   

  ——-
  
  

  
  
  It was a panicked morning.  Hitting the snooze, I accidentally nudged the hour button, advancing the clock forward.  Ten minutes later, I flipped out.  When I realized what happened, I couldn’t help but laugh.  A fun start to a long day.

   

  ———
  
  
  Currently looping:

  
  
  Yours, Mine, Ours 
   

  Matt11:28

  • 12:28 am
  • 11 Comments