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Brice Powers Poem
It was a long walk, with time heeling at my shadow.
(and somewhere miles away the garage door closed, and the exhaust flowed,
and a small dog died in her limp arms)
I was friendly with God. Only with small trepidation did I drink from the sordid
chalice, minutes before, and decided that a walk, skip and a jump to nowhere is what I
needed the most. And so it was.
Block after block, stones in the pavement, the smell of creosote poles.
Delicate foil wrappers, industrial petals, She loves me not, she loves....
Sidetrack with backpack, it doesn't matter. I don't care.
I'll be there when I damn well find myself somewhere. Which is where
the trees grow bright, and the birds flit without flapping.
And the water forms misty and bejeweled, laying my mind out flat
like steam would fine linen. then I will sit and breath with an "e". You bet.
But first a small lap in a languid pool of solace, a tip toe through the forest afire with
colors borrowed from alien hands, a taste of spring time cum. Let me wallow.
God, friend, let me wallow in your mess of beauty, before I call it something.
Let me roll around like a goddamn dog. I want to itch and draw forth honey from my veins.
I want to suck sap bleeding from the tree, and dine on the lost sound of the whippoorwill.
God, let me die a small death of beauty, and be reborn in an orgasm of **** all get out!
No qualms. Buddy. I love your work. It looks like you ****ed yourself a good one.
And what came was all this edible goodness. Like Dali, I want to eat it. All.
Now, like I promised you, I'll give back. I'll play your hypnotic song
and sing to your soiled minions. I'll take heed in your loving whispers
and open up my heart for your midnight snack. I'll clean up your moonspill
and read to you that silly book of yours, the one about the golden rule
and those twelve dudes. (Sorry God, not my cup of tea).
Draw a bath for your daughters, and draw back the bow for your sons, and ready the bed for Venus.
Sit back and relax, ol buddy, I'll do the best that I can
then I'll grow tired
and fertilize
your garden.
Oh. Now I can breathe. The song has left my lips for now.
I walked myself into a lovely stupor, and you showed me
the rainbow. And I raised your worms.
I played your song, God.
(I hope that somehow, she heard it over the din of engine and whimper of dog)
I played that timeless song, or you played me.
Either way, it's still the day
that the trees grew bright with sun
and the birds flew without flapping.
Copyright © Brice Powers | Year Posted 2013
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