Poet Talking to a Burning Bush.

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The words looped.
“Plain life. Plain verse. Plain life. Plain verse. Plain life. Plain verse…”
The words roaring from my subconscious like a tribal chant. I was hypnotized off failure. Subdued by a loss of creative existence. Here it was, a poem about her, about him, about sex, about Dr. Seuss, all the proper nouns that mocked inspiration. I narrowed my eyes, on the lip of the trashcan, a tissue, crusted with rejected mucus. I heard the first reaction.
“How vile. How disgusting. How terribly rude.”
Yet, the mucus a-part of me. The tissue a tool. In the process of finding worth for trash, found myself in the process of an epiphany. Realized whatever vile thing leaves me, I better make it interesting.

In a dance I twirled about the room. Flamboyant to life, tickling its rapture like a cunt. As the orgasm commenced, I grabbed my weed and vacated the house. I sat in the car. Engine started. Fuel lowered. Ambition high. I intended to be high, later. I blinked at my reflection in the rear-view. Determined that such a motion was a wave, eyelashes twinkled like fingers.

Nodded into the proper suburban greeting. As Old Mr. Wendy watered his lawn with a hose. A prism of color trapped in the dribbled moisture exiting the hose’s anus. Or was it a mouth? Him with his beer belly and tobacco stained, yellow teeth. Who once told me
“Don’t ever vote for a fucking communist.”
I smiled at the prospect of telling him that I bleed red. Still, his life is mine. My life is his. And the sky is blue because we said so.

Ripples in the water contoured reflections of willow leaves and ducks digesting stale bread. I said:
“Here I am at the park. Surely there’s meaning here. For man built this park. And I am man and I have meaning.”

A stranger with a Homer-esque beard, rested on a park bench. I approached him as if I was stalking prey. And asked him:
“Surely, surely sir, you know what the meaning to all this is?”
He patted his twinkling fingers on the empty seat next to him. I accepted the invitation and placed my bottom beside him. His eyes, cloudy with cataracts, pierced me with a stare.
“Life is not this or that.” He said. “Life is the us. Life is also hugs. Lots of hugging.”

I empty gestured a reciprocating “O.” We didn’t acknowledge an “X.” I circulated my arms around him and felt the warmth of another and smelled the courage of halitosis. I pulled away to air. Arms around nothing. Nothing there, arms around air. I grasped for another hug. He placed his hand on my chest. As he did this a breeze swayed his beard. I followed its motion. It was steadied like a pendulum.

Hanging along the shore, like a tissue on the lip of a trashcan, I stood. There she was. She was the mirror. A soul reflector. I angled parallel with a shadow and gazed at her through the dark. She danced like a nymph. While rose petals and pollen suffered from the strength of her gravitational pull. But I noticed that her fingers didn’t twinkle. And neither did mine. Yet, we came together…hoping that two would be better. But sometimes the best isn’t good enough. Before I saw her as a speck of dandruff, I asked the skeleton laced in flesh:
“Please tell me…why should we go on?”
She smiled. Released her lips. Then, she smiled again. She cupped her hand on my cheek and felt my teeth grinding through my thin flesh.
“Shhhh…The beautiful experience is the same as a grotesque experience. The opposite of love is indifference. To live is to love.”
Within seconds she became dandruff and then, a ghost.

On my drive home, I didn’t blink. Good-bye didn’t seem a rational response. I went home to an empty page. And un-loaded my full mind.

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