Friday, July 24, 2015

Journal 80 - Word Games on Bourbon Street

Words are games the philosophers say. Words are games
and games we play, but words as games leave nothing to say.
Words may not mean much and words may be sophomoric games
but beautiful women in the distance, blond and tan and wearing
a yellow sundress and smoking a cigarette in the rising moon
light mean something. And it isn't naughty. I cough when
the wind blows beauty my way. The world is wrapped in
beauty like in a child's worn blanket, and the world throws
rhythmic fits of coughing like a James Brown hit - levelling
knees and leaving smiles and rainbow eyes. The night bugs
click behind me in some natural Motown accompaniment. They
make their music and they make their itchy presence known.
Beauty itches when it moves your blood. Dragons live inside of
slender flies; they are the color of ready-to-burst soap
bubbles outside Gilead I hear. Beauty pops as Beauty should,
if the Buddhists have their way. I think Beauty should
stay and play and dance the simple pentatonic jig with all
our Southern souls. Beauty paraded is Beauty unbraided
and decomposed in a cold pedantic distinction of atomic
parts, atonal splatters of night-time blood on a warm hand.
Bloodletting is an ancient practice of God's mosquitoes,
desperate in their desire to appropriate your life for their
insignificant symphonies. The symphonies of nefarious bugs
pale in comparison to their larger cousins. There is no metaphor
for us. I know it's been long but I had a little break you
see. (stolen) I stumble across Beauty on bourbon streets and
wet humid sidewalks shifting and swinging in a warped
nocturnal dance with the streetlights of our present universe.
Despite diesel I still love our world and those who drive.
I wish I was a rain drop falling from the black sky, consorting
with my siblings to assimilate ourselves into some large slung
stream of water to clean and nurture the world, slung as
though from the large water pale of God - smiling as he
knocks us backward in our dehydrated comfort. I would
slide down the stalk and nestle in the nutrient filled earth,
while others slapped the smiling homeless soul man across the
cheek, drenching him in cleanliness while the self-rinsed
rich man cursed me for disintegrating his rich "Do." I
would leap up and slap him one last time from my sharp flagellum.


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