It's not so late, but I feel tired and it ain't cold, but light the fire. I ain't old, but liniment would feel damned good with good intent.
I'm singing blues as if I'm black. My palms are greased in creases cracked. I'm home and I ain't turnin' back, Oh Mamma, I'm so sad in sin.
Just let me in. I won't stray I'll feed the chickens, twice a day. I'll milk the cows and slop the pigs. I'll pluck the fruits and can the figs and I will sing all your church hymns.
Oh mama, please, I'm on the porch as if I hadn't grown...and this ain't blood upon your door. my fist is split from fraught and fingertips and them, the tracks laid on your path ain't my footsteps draggin' in
all that you warned me that could be the day I packed my rags to leave and left you on your own...I'm home?
I wanna ride, Clyde" she said, in gather of herself.. she tweaked the mini edges of her lycra sin we'll call a skirt a measure of discreet, too late to cover up the holes and runs-- as she'd left the club, she'd torn the second skin her legs had worn with the rhinestones up the back...
She glared and flicked her bic as if she wanted more than cigarette without expressing her regrets she shrugged and said: "Forgot to ask..." before she gazed goodbye.
Her driver turned the meter on tick-tick-ticking as he won the middle lane of preference and edged a Lexus out of it with one sharp left and no regrets he asked her "For how long?"
"Leave the meter on," she said. "I just wanna ride."
"Any place particular?" "The Brooklyn Bridge." she finally laughed.
"Oh, but that's a lover's curse." She exhaled smoke, as she replied:
"I do know your name's not Clyde-- but I just wanna ride," she said, "just like you must want to drive the faster circles people pace as they complicate their lives with spirographs and obstinance -"
"Lady, I just want to drive," he slammed the brakes at the redlight. "I'm not your damned psychologist." He watched her flick her cigarette out of the window to their right bouncing off the same Lexus that they'd passed with carelessness six blocks ago in record time. She looked up, he met her eyes-- he ran the light and they both smiled:
The driver took her for a ride, emptying his tank.
"Wipe that shit off of your mouth." They always say that when they can't inspire blood-lust-lessonings-- spanking her lips quivering as she covers up her lack of passiontube of lipstick that she thought would substitute
So she wipes the greasepaint off backhand in the swiped grimace as he gives her bloody bruise
and plumps her lips non-naturate.
Enjoyment in the throb; he swoons dizzied by the dance-- he looms drizzling her with ointment he had marketed too soon...
As bleak as it might seem, m'friend, there have been days more dark than these: when we trembled at the knees and held them locked to stand at ease while the dirges banged the drums our minds exploding with the sun shining in absurdity where two towers crumbled was...
we're coughing from the dust suspiciously reciting creed
green and black
loving our lust
as the stripes burst at the seams and stars take to the winds
I feel his heat in the curl of bone. He makes me wish for privacy to tender embers which I keep covered now with Woden's ash as if I had confessed, atoned, for the dreams that come to me yearning that I could find home-- flanked by my books I make a fort weaving branches with my hair gathering the stones they throw and pack them sturdy with the dirt they spewed from their wretched tongues disguised to dignity as verse as I chant transformatives superlatives offset the curse encircling the hearth with burst remnants of the red clay stone as he slowly climbs the steppe to claim as his the purple throne--
"My King, My King"
I'll wash his feet and pray I'll feel the sacred oil upon my head in sanctity:
A survey of her wardrobe tells stories of the masquerade: simply insignificant, like stones upon the grave.
Fringe would be ridiculous, and sequins inappropriate her favorite jeans are dated now, the houndstooth? Too collegiate. That little summer sailor dress is too sad to donate; she keeps it in her closet just because she loved that day.
The lycra's too revealing now, the silk is water-stained. Black lace is torn too intimate, she throws that blouse away. She drops the towel to the floor and then shrugs on her robe. A quick glance in the mirror slapped the sass off her ego:
It's much too late to go out now--besides, where would she go? She sits before the vanity where her former friends turned foe. Posturing to find her light, she slathers on the cream, swallows zanax with merlot, she prays that she will sleep.
She triples up the dosages and grins with purple teeth; two pills, four pills, six pills, eight--to silence memory. Yes, she wants to sleep tonight but she does not wish to dream. She's naked undercover flipping through her fantasies--
weary of redundancy, she falls asleep that way. Simply insignificant, like stones upon the grave.
Some bring me fruit and flowers. Every day's an anecdote. A cautious tassel on our drapes reveals the sunlight welcoming.
I strong-arm the door for them - a growling Annie's by my side. Ever-eager Freddy is consigned to terrier, again. "My Hero --Alpha Dog!!" I lie. "I am, " he whines. I laugh. He sighs. "Of course you are."
He wags the rug in smug placation.
Friends are different these days - orbs are present in their eyes. A haunting to be sure, I know, I look at them and say goodbye. Silently acknowledging I can't correct what has transpired. So I wish them well as they walk their narrow, spindle-gait
There be dragons that prevail
I lock the door - security, and I decide to sweep the floor. Superstitiously--bad luck--
Take that with you, Mutha-wruck!
I will pray this day away.
Love is in the flickering tealights and my potpourri bubbles in the caldron we keep hidden by the ficus tree that twinkles with blue lights.
Nothing's on the stove tonight. The cat is dying quietly. "Layla" makes the pain alright and Clapton is great company singing sad sobriety of one too many apertif.
Grief sings out the sixteenth note and I am silenced by the weight of memories I'd thought remote:
They'll welcome you with worship. Their hands will join to bridge and gate. Then they'll come to you with swords and slice your throat for just a taste sympathetically inclined oh they will, make subjugate,
what was once a spiritual suffrage of a ritual
became a madman's haste--
"Worship can be painful, son, but check the box next to women-- make provision for their keep and grant allowances to weep."
Mithra blinked mock tears. Mithra flexed and shrugged off fear:
"We might need them now and then, as vessels for our future men and necessary gods."
* * *
(This passage has been recorded by Thoth, and is so notorized by warranty and grant of his reputation).
Crown defeat with laurel ring for aspiration in the game. Hand over heart bow to the king, and to his queen, the same. Step aside and lead the crowd with hands together in applause. Appreciate the time well spent and don't neglect to thank the Gods.
Cue the trumpets gracefully, respect the victor's flags unfurled. Shake the hand of greater-than (yourself) in all the world. Drink mighty mugs of mead and kiss the second-loveliest women. Indulge yourself and indulge them, with silver coin to spend.
Take the time to praise the wine forgetful of the bitter sips.. Drink heartily of peasant's skins--thump your chest and lick your lips. Praise the steed on which you rode; be gracious to your squire and speak well of him who sang your songs, return to him his dignity.
Crown defeat with laurel ring for aspiration in the game. Hand-over-heart bow to the king, and to his queen, the same.