|
Postmarked 29 July, 2002… The last mad missive from the mouth of Maine! Pray to Her (a poem) Sit. Drink. Lick pussy. And by all means, man, hold onto your balls when
flying these days. Pray. Who do i pray to? The Muslims pray to Allah,
Then hit the town with fanny packs full of C-4 and roofing nails, and
once, in one surreal, fucked-up day, they brought down the house on American
naivete. The Christians pray to Jesus, then go out and do grave damage
worldwide in HIS name and point the finger at sinners and say none but
they with Jesus in their heart can enter the Kingdom of Heaven. The Catholics
abide a geriatric cone head as they pray to their god, then run backstage
& jerk off little boys and drink their semen with a golden grail of
holy wine. Need i go on? Pick a religion. Pray: Then lie down on a cool
mattress in hot summer and watch as with lithe fingers she spreads her
perfect lips to grace and embrace your road-worn face. Take one last deep
draught of her dank, sweet, musky air, then hold it. Sit girl. Sit and
dream awhile while my air grows thin and the stars come out and God comes
into view. July 24, 2002 "I'm gonna soak up the sun, gonna tell everyone to lighten up…" Achy feet. July 24 cont'd humble the soul. I never heard a person which ahd that symptoms heap if assistance your ma does afford and which no doubt his salesman talent does accord the proper occasion) ... "It's Tuesday at [such-an-such o'clock] in the morning and I (am imagining) wandering wherest thowart my fathers prodigal son, for yesterday was Monday, that day did give for you to cartwheel and hitchhike your prodigal way back to my saintly arms ... tut ... tut ... tut ..." but sadly for all his charms and probably gonvihe tho' grossly absurd grief (I'll explain this in a moment) I could no longer come to meet him at his summer xxxx cottage in Freiburg, ME, I had bid upon and gotten another job! So here I sit here waked to the sky and the skeeters and those beautiful black insect eaters high above me in the trees in what seems such a joyous and carefree dance upon air and please pardon the rather predicable aside into film lore, but those winged choir like mice so nice overhead elisot in actor's voice , zen actor writer whatever he said we can't stop here! This is Bat Country! No, you geriatric asthmatic wheezing motorhead gaih-wearing dork, you (to borrow the current popular feminist vernacular) are/were a sperm donor and little else! My father is a very decent man. He's no DarthVader. Fro some reason I have always connected him with actor Brian Dennehy, you know, the big guy who mostly plays semi bad-guys or outlawed good-guys. I guess I see in Denehey an image of the man I wish my father were. To what had my dad never met his current wife and embarked on his new paternal life of raising up two young girls to womanhood and marrying his blah goody goody demi-nun wife, he's rose to the challenge put forth by my mother when she flashed photos of outdoor campuses, palm trees, surfers and eternal sunshine in our faces then whisked us off to California in 1981 ... well, has he followed his children, his blood children and followed through with the pact his penis had long ago made he might today be more Dennehy than Darth to me. "Hold me now, cuz I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinkin, maybe six feet ain't so far down..." The loons! Wow! They howl and sing their warbly song at some crazy hi-decibel level own on the lake, the mountain rimmed lake just one big echoing amplifier, and damned if it doesn't just sop me mid sentence, deer-in-the-headlight style, and I tine in to loon radio clear as a bell, louder than the pops and roar of the fire just four feet away. Loon song, fire flies, sleep! Bleep! Blinking on and off never in one place for long so that they never reappear in the same spot is seems, always mobile. I know all about the necessity of mobility when your light burns that bright and everybody wants to snuff it out or at the very least dim it. {here the writer didst asleep fallen, yavoll.-] [... in his lawnchair beneath the stars and the twirling airborne orange sparks of his mega-fire in the mega-fire ring of his making here on Dan's land, Rane, Maine.] - RSM
|
