In tune with the skin of magic,
She forfeits youth to a larger song.
This morning she meditated along the coast,
Her tender thoughtfulness aimed toward the ocean,
Praying for passion while watched closely
By drug assuaged fantasies of rape.

Walking home,
Chilled by gloom despite the hot
Summer December day,
A handsome grin introduced himself.
“Your hands are so cold,” she said,
Reluctantly shaking his paw.

They orbit her,
Soiled, enthusiastic, hip, hearty, reckless, dashing;
Sample her supply of paradise,
Wonder why she pipes of sadness.
Each one wants to thrill her
With garage sale hearts and hyphenated poems.
“Don’t be sad,” say the lonely, the ready for battle,
The tied up inside.

The bluebird has sarcoma,
Hacks up little briquette bits of lung
First thing in the morning.
Clara is sacred and hounded,
Clara is profane and preferred.
Clara is mocked for her visions of a better Lithuania
And cannot be bought by the steel tycoon
Who watches her roll past his office window
On a gliding kick of melancholy.

Mike Wellman of Atomic Basement Pimps “TEX!” at the San Diego con., Summer of 2004

Posted on by Joshua Dysart Posted in Journal, Writing

Add a Comment