from: visions of a desert angel
angel wraps her bright eyes
around a dark man
warps her lips into a smile
that screeches like a train.
she is hipping and hopping
watching the still gray air of others
circle away from them
and darker than when it left.
in her heart of God she is beating out
a slow burial
for the doomed. in her other heart
of God she is singing
dancing raindrops over the ground.
in her fantasies-- like mine
and yours and our mothers’
she is no longer a romantic paraplegic
but an able-bodied lover
able to cover another with her soul
while they cover her--
stitched together like a two-sided quilt.
it does not matter one soul may be more right
what is important
is that one body may be more wrong
than another-- and there is time to search.
always time to search--
though her invisible rose heart
is approaching the end of spring
and preparing to hit the july desert
of too long alone,
zips zings zims and zooms
through the universe
screaming to the fire trucks--
run over that apple!
water my garden!
through the night
like a bright
chip of blue ice
and melting sharper--
ripping the flesh off of heaven.
naked, and disemboweled, heaven
weeps out its blood for her--
washing her tattered garments of failure
wishing she would face the pithy night
and pray one golden prayer
for the collective soul.
does not know who her father is
does not understand
when she prays for one
she prays for all
and when she prays for all
she is really praying for herself
instead, she prays for herself
and no one-- not even her-- is helped.
she is not illegitimate-- she knows
who her father is-- rather
she is illiterate. she cannot read
people any bettern the rest of us
can read assembly instructions.
but the buddha truth of it is
when she left me on the floor
she was not careful
because no one else was around
and we were both laughing
wildly drunk with the human experience
our lunatic hair both frayed and matted
with the burning sweat of madness.
it was not bad
it was good
just as all things