| ::09:14:08::
::: After Seeing A Man on a Ladder :::
(Section 1)
What makes the dog run away?
(Section 2)
The thought was no,
There is understanding, quiet
knowing of:
And she said,
And she was,
And she is.
She likes the country I am told,
Running barefoot, yet, there is
In her standing the memory
Of my saying, "...you are turning her into a lesbian free-spirit..."
Like a tree caught in the myth of turning
As the Botticelli of the forest, of the world
Gone crazy with the vines of strong will
And even stronger the blood
Of firecrackers and running
With other wild horses
As the babble betook my daughter
Of Okeanides,
Bare feet of the familiar.
(Section 3)
Happy 4th of July!
Gonzo screen #6!
What was I doing?
They laugh, "...and there is no way I am working a 12 hour day without benefits; no f*cking way."
All I could think:
And there are crows above the wheat fields
And weeds growing in the wheat,
After the ants and the worms
And the sun
Take care of it.
The crows go missing
Until another summer,
Dropping the women off at the depot
Who continually remember "the days"
While their seashell men
Are forever reminded of their own
"Inner Weather,"
They too make their sad crawl
To the Harlem of blue shirts
Haloing paler faces,
The Good Year Blimp held in
By the good year gone grey
Way beyond the gold street Gods,
That theatrical heaven
And hell of she,
Her name- Manhattan perhaps
Stands with me silent
On the platform-
I can sense her even when she is not
Holding my bigger hand-
I can feel it in the swelling of the clouds,
When the sprinkle drops start
Peppering my inner heart of Cracker Jack,
Here in lies the prize
In every box,
Remembering rubbing her arms to dry
With she in glee
Because of the gentle rain,
Seemingly from our own private cloud
Of true innocence that leaves me
The minute I live it-
All pink and chatty
About her new word:
"Anyway"
Anyway that begins everything,
Followed by the:
"Guess what?"
Just making up,
The waking up in late afternoon
To see if she really knows
My anyway guess what tears that hide,
Daddy is leaving.
(Section 4)
With my ruffian tail
Between my blue collar un-employed artist days;
She tells me in her small voice,
So big for her, "...you are like a green kite
Without a string..."
Hold onto me,
My light pink tether,
Hold onto this old green kite,
For I have built towers for rock n' rollers
And butchered pianos with and axe,
Trashcans with baseball bats,
Yet none will ever exist
As fragile and concrete as you
Holding my hand on the way
From summer school
Together
Seeing the man on the ladder,
Content to walk home
And wonder.
Written by: ~ J.D. Szalla |
