He could not say when the snow would stop,
though the firewood delivered was a guarantee,
its massive loom of itself,
its rough cigar bodies
stacked to touch the rafters,
leaning backwards sipping dryness,
green and flakes melting in a coffee cup
left outside five minutes ago.
He remembered the squeak of the Ferris wheel,
how its wheel’s center settled late at night when
his body would rematerialize, divide and divide
into being those long ago passengers screaming
in slow motion as serpentine twists turned to
twilights lighting their way back home with miles
of smiling lullabies about zero gravity,
upside down falling in love and starlight
that did not change
when turned around the other way.
He looked through,
into a sliver of glass
and found his great-grandmother
in there sipping sassafras.
He moved to the sound of balls of yarn
being let out by the neighbor’s cat,
who had found a new way into the basement
thanks to nests of termites, carpenter ants and bats.
Life had titled him a ‘He’,
though his dreams said nothing
consistent about a soul’s landing
having to have a lifetime of self-built guardrails,
the inadaptable fees belonging to remorse
and faith’s chameleon itch for heaven’s fleas.
Light knitted his seconds
into the throats of Passing Time’s children to sing,
down, down, down into the guttural rages
and relaxations belonging to this globe’s legends,
subconscious-legions and those bottomless moments
of irritation with the ability to become irritable,
with the ability to loose what’s thought to be proof
of Loving idling and eternally full of fuel and
the sensation of a ‘me.’
What he thought to be ‘good’ turned out to be
simply a mood, a privacy-screen between
what he knew was expected of him
and Reality’s extraordinary ability to
make an unknown tomorrow’s news
into cage-lining for eggs wobbling to be born,
to be flight away from standing still
reading anything,
save the wind currents
who try in teams to crumple the dwelling
on of shadows who sing while sipping
gin backwards, wringing it from the
nightmares who proved that anger and loss
are not Siamese twins,
but rather they’re echoes of one another’s
longing for cessation inside gratuitous
worthiness and confessions that turn
confessionals back into the jungles from
where they came from.
Silence envelopes him and mails him back
into the noise of Brand New.
Noise opens him to find its reflection
now dissolving quicker than the sound of
the seal tearing
could ever itself show
proof of being undone
for the sake of being able to do so.
July 9, 2009
http://www.michaelangell.com
http://www.michaelangellstudios.com
Author: Michael E Angell
Article Source: EzineArticles.com
Provided by: Credit card currency-exchange fees
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