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27 August, 2012

Esme has love but only occasional squalor.

She gets bananas but not of the kicked fish sort,

and I doubt she’d much like to go kicking anyway.

No glass to see more, just clumps of pine

threaded on chains at which she pecks in pique.

How strange that she gets pissed at pine.

Then again, perhaps no more strange than I

at the white, bi-fold, pine doors I recently hung,

snarling at their refusal to line up straight.

Drill Sergeant to reluctant wood:  That’s me.

So what the heck is that all about …

or anything else for that matter.

The little prince had his matter of consequence

but not I, it appears, any more, if ever.

My rose wandered off, not even on the planet,

the consequences of that

being sacrifice wasted unless, of course,

that rose yet blooms ever more radiant

for the sacrifice.

Even that, I fear, would be a thought born of the

intolerableness of wasted sacrifice.

Is wasted sacrifice noble or simply the blundering and drooling

of a numb nuts heart … a special needs child of who knows what?

If it was indeed noble …

but there I go again

with the intolerable attempting another great seduction

into mitigation if not justification.

It is true that if one finds it necessary to justify or explain

then one was dead-ass wrong from the get go.

I was dead-ass wrong, and about as noble as a fungus.

Still, the rose mattered more than anything at the time.

It was a matter of consequence.

It was not a rose on some obscure planet.

Through the quantum entanglement within my heart

that rose was the universe.

All that the rose was was all there was.

Perhaps I will get around to trimming Esme’s flight feathers

so that she might join me in the sun.


no squalor

and maybe even a bath.

(My apologies to Salinger)


From → Stories & Poetry

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