Blameless, the tarnished angels were wishing upon stars that twinkled between their toes and addressed them with passionate eyelessness. No man is an island, but an angel is even less so. It could be said that we’re dismissing them for being more than human, but maybe the opposite is true.
Bowling is less traumatic when people are taking fingers off of the polish to keep the eggs at bay. They’re eggs of ethereal essence sent to give us hope and glad tidings around the holiday season. Too many fucking Christmas songs and carolers make the bloodstains more realistic around the door frame where the numbskulls were knocking again last night. When I was sleeping. A nap disturbed is wasted sleep, after all! Could I be more concise when I develop lasers that focus on the bewildered and deliver us upward and over the becoming cellar? A door that leads to nowhere and a ceiling that can never be reached is what Hell and Heaven mean to me.
They’re going to say I write about religion more than the clergy, but that’s because they’ve got a liquor cabinet stuffed with the good stuff, and mine is bone dry. Dry as a polar brain. Wicked as a cellular phone. A bear batting brandy about the beastly banner. Forth and onward! Fourth and sunward! Course and northward! Cursed and canned, conical and comical as much as a smiling jackass on the edge of a very long fall, going down with empathy in my eyesight inside. I see the fall over and over and over again, but it’s nothing I hold against the daredevils. Missed chances to save the day resonate forever in dreams that occur in the wakeful hours.
We’re pleased as supermen and saints; sinners don’t go holding down the fort when there’s cheap pleasure to be had in the back seat of an air conditioned limo on a hot summer night. The night’s never hot in the winter, so I guess I didn’t have to really specify. Unless you’re on Venus, where the winters scorch only slightly less than summers. Then again, it depends on your hemisphere and attire worn for the occasion. If you’re going, you should really pack your space clothes in case the transportation isn’t first class enough for you!
We weren’t cut out for imagining much more than the lesser essence of a mothman in hibernation, but there goes the neighborhood when you’ve got omniscient extraterrestrials and fey folk crossing mixed signals near crossroads and crossword puzzles. They’ve got their own languages that keep them talking mysteries to the rest of us. Like a secret code for which no ring’s ever been struck. Stricken? Strictly speaking, a Sopwith Camel could mop up a Zero in the blink of a weary eye that’s not designated to crash into all hands on deck and the bobbing water trap that is an aircraft carrier. But only if Snoopy’s driving. He’s got his paws on the buttons and his mind on his money.
So I went to the bank the other day and they’d run out of quarters. I thought they could just make more, but I guess their machine was down and the government wasn’t coming around to fix it on a holiday weekend. I wish they were more particular about who they let touch their crap, anyway. It was often a fierce admission of guilt by those who had the power to mint money for the masses when we know more often than not that we can’t trust them with the economic flow any more than we could trust a viper in a room full of rabbits. Can we kibitz with the cabal in Canton? I’ve never been to Canton. Do they speak Cantonese there? Midwestern bible thumpers were thumbing their noses at the ne’er-do-wells in charge of plowing, mostly because tractors had been invented ages ago and they felt that people too afraid to get with the times weren’t ready for anyone’s second coming, anyway. Who could be right? Who could be wrong? Do we question the faithless with rings around words that are made for simplistic explanations and casino junctions mostly kept throttled by fingers filled with rich rings. Gemstones and jewelry were kept precious for a reason, but too much cheapens it for everyone. Is it some sick dream that gets us up to snuff and asking where Alaska fits into the equation? I was hoping for more motion sickness as I reared my head up into the clouds and spacemen were taking numbers on the way to the ether, but who could tell me otherwise when I had a tummy full of shrimp cocktails and a brain full of freckles caused by cancer from the bright, bright sun?
I’m speckled full of freckles and I’m reckless as a jackal. Jeepers!
[Image by NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center]