The point of this poem is its middle…


Their bondage was held together by a slavers chain, and in the city the talk was of silver and caramel cupcakes and of how a pontiffs edicts were selected from a list found in the pocket of a chameleon and read daily at noon or on Friday as a bell was tolled by a man named Simon – whose beard was the color of the previous ash Wednesday.

The good old girls and the grand dame ladies genuflected at the shrine of a Prague infant, watching him dance down three altars steps while holding a chalice of grail gold which incidentally had the same tone as Simon’s bronze bell, when pinged by a pastors finger nail.

A picture of a pin up virgin hangs on a vestibule wall painted as white as arctic snow and there you can hear a father expedite the correction of a tribe of Indians mother tongue, like they were his step children.

Then your attention will be called on an errand, or you will watch it drift away to care to the details and urgings of some other bodily function.

Exactly how much life hinges on the meagerness of your expectations?

A casual exploration of “because” or a drilling into the core of “why” might reveal the root cause of your ignorance, complicity, and cancer.

Or when you explode at the center of Armageddon will it be spring or the season after, and will scurrying quail lose their feathers to tar and feather men dressed in white robes, crosses sewn on their shoulders?

In a high office window studded with rhinestones, a strong chin gulps coffee, Sanka I think, and issues edicts and judgments prescribing your evenings entertainment – a blind talking dog, and the vanishing girl, who disappears after applying cream to the face of her mother –

Who has, at least in her mind walked back up those three altar steps – but is really standing on the porch of her 50’s style ranch house, with a swing swinging both ways in the backyard, on which a lazy man sits smoking a cigar costing 20 cents – which is more often than not OK, if that’s all the sense you have…


6 responses to “The point of this poem is its middle…

  1. very inventive, lovely images unfolding

  2. This reads as allegory of Catholicism, filled with images and promise– sadly unfulfilled.

  3. jo – Thank You

    Bob – maybe…but I might not have got it all correctly…you see I was only an altar boy…

  4. Yes, so was I, but I understand that old habits die hard, even in the face of logic so basic and elemental that disavowment remains sequestered beneath the dung heap, untouchable by intellect or common sense.

  5. ever notice how most of the best things tend to be settled easy somewhere in the middle?

    loved this lil gem…

    ‘will it be spring or the season after, and will scurrying quail lose their feathers to tar and feather men dressed in white robes, crosses sewn on their shoulders?’

  6. Bob – still trying to wrap my head around the mystery of that sentence…maybe when i get my desk top back…

    Dame – ello, danka…good to see you back up and around, maybe drinking coffee in a robe or whatever – it doesn’t matter…your back on the mend…maybe I will come back too, maybe sooner than later…

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