Thanks to Miles Hodges for coming to Stone Soup yesterday. It was an action packed night. I got as many people as I could, which included a lot of new voices.
Trip
Talk about a regurgitating jukebox!
A man with hands like baseball mitts
can't choose a good tune
or handle a needle for any high.
So many contradictions, he seems honest,
though he's tried to learn Spanish
just to fake paintings by Frida Kahlo
and sell them for pennies,
enough for a pay phone
he sprawls by every afternoon
to wait for God's call and instructions.
Sometimes, he's told to follow a woman home
to another man's bed, but that's okay.
No answer. It's a leap year.
God may have forgotten the extra day
and didn't come into work.
He's upset that gravity
never takes a day off,
the looming planets above
remains aloof.
And he's only high enough
to fall into unconsciousness.
His feet of clay do a dreidel spin,
his mind a lone dispatcher
in his body's battlefield
with no radio.
He transmits stories of the dead
but tries to keep them to himself
so he doesn't sound like a terrorist
prowling the afterlife
for his reward.
He still likes to fight for his sanity,
an amateur boxer or newborn child,
needing management,
someone to keep his head up
and explain the difference
between reflection and shadow.
Apologies to Jeannie Nunes, who I couldn't get to yesterday. |
Special Thanks to Sumaiya Zama, Lee Litif, Sheridan Jones, Allister, Surat Lozowick, Angelica Maria Aguilera, Dexter, Martha Boss, Gladys Teresa Hidalgo, Jonathan J. Joseph, Navah The Buddaphliii, Shea, DiDi Delgado, and Miles Hodges.
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