Impossibly Fluffy

For my Southern Crush

Love is made of fluff

Aery marshmallow bouquet

A sweet pantomime.

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Rabbit Crossing

Once upon an epoch, definitely A.D., there was a white bunny on the holey road to Damascus, where the ultimate profit of sin was absolution. He was carrying a sinner's backpack, which carried an offering of empty light. Along the road he came upon brightly colored yet slightly antiqued plastic eggs. Each egg he found was filled w/ sins, approximately seven to be precise. He gathered all the eggs and it made the rucksack heavy and he pulled & pushed it slowly along -- a trail of his sinner's journey and it made him tired and weak and dehydrated and void. At a fork on the road he saw, like a resurrected mirage, a black hole or a hill.

Although he was exhausted beyond comprehensible repair he chose the hill of tranquil clarity. He dragged his transgressing sins to the height of the hill and fell atop them, w/ his arms outstretched like a veritable cross; his sins sounded like damnable thunder. From the outer pocket of his rucksack he pulled out a red & white crocheted cross from his scripture. He covered his assenting eyes w/ his guilty ears and prayed a sinner's prayer. He felt the manumitting hand of God's will pierce thru his confessor's hands, which felt like an immersion of his repentant's soul in a river of clear water till it stained. He unzipped his bag, w/ a devout acquiescence and the contents rose thru a breath of forgiving air and the empty light shot to the exalted heavens and he was uplifted to a rejoicing that only an Easter bunny could feel.

*My Cross to Bear*

Can't carry my cross
To the end of the driveway
It's too damn heavy.

I was brought to life w/ a sinner's breath
and I will die begging a sinner's forgiveness
for Jesus came to my sinner's threshold
and I, unworthy, anointed his savior's feet
and I pushed my sinner's thorns toward salvation
on his take-away-my-suffering's brow, and yet still
he loves me; I wasn't meant to suffer a sinner's banquet
and on the day of truth I shall drink his mercy he told me so

Sly Little Devil

Here's the thing -- I'm engaged in blog tag w/ a friend of mine. Today she posted a poetric haiku of mine and name-dropped me on her blog. At first I thought she was Satan incarnate, but I had to extol the truth, which is, I had this stupid crescent moon grin affixed to my in-awe-of-her mug; I even became uncharacteristically speechless. However, some would say Bravo for eliciting that kind of reaction from me. I had to thank her, my artistically fiendish sovereign, because honor permeated beyond measure, but I would've preferred if she deferred from referring to me as my real name and, instead, tag me as So 'n' So & my blog as Such 'n' Such in the future.

The following is a stroke of artistic genius from my friend Goldilocks's blog. Please see her link ("buy her art," says Miss Subliminal) to the right of this page. Please note: the art masterpiece shown here is the exclusive copyright of Kathy McCullen (aka Goldilocks). If you damn steal it, you'll be damned. Sorry, I don't mean to threaten bodily harm or voodoo hexes. I'm just saying.

Moondance 16 X 24 Mixed media on canvas. SOLD
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Now a score of her blog groupies may come over for a sit-in so I need to tidy (with a pretentious broom) my blog cubbyhole. Or, out of slight fear, I might even be compelled to defenestrate it as it humbly reclines in a bay window.

Husband's Day

Love
carved of ocean stone
on a baker's block
in a florist's home
awaiting delivery
in a musician's case
to lovers of wild leisure
who refuse to dance alone

Three Tenors of Spring

I must've loved you that first minute
w/ those yellow tulips in my lap
when we talked in circles & polka dots
just so we could prolong the date

Daylight Savings

I listen repetitiously to the twelve strokes of midnight, far and near, they sing. And while counting back the twelve strokes, I lose myself in tomorrow's concave footsteps. Thus, before me, a de novo serenade of countless moons and stars and suns, all conspiring w/ the twelve strokes, here and there, to shepherd me like far-sighted angels, w/ whom, will allay me for everlasting salvation.

So I won't anymore borrow your time

on sunshine days and sunless nights

for at the stroke of midnight's severance

I, a docent wanderer, will listen to jazz

in an underground of my own nirvana

Graffiti Fiend

Even though the scenery seemed aristocratic, I was on a characteristically dilapidated kind of train, a really crummy (Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your Fears) kind of train, not entirely a spic-n-span kind of train, not the Orient Express kind of train, from Italy to Rome, sorry, rather, from Rome to Venice, or visa versa. And I remember two things distinctly that referenced that hovering day of highbrow summer: a. abandoned graffiti and b. poised rainbow flags hanging from all the inundated balconies. I was entirely clever in noticing. I thought, "Wow, they really embrace their gay community here." And then I found out about the rally. And thought, "Wow, they really embrace their gay community here." I was so overjoyed that their minds weren't vitiated by narrow-minded prejudice or thinly-veiled intolerance. I had faith that hope hadn't torn from its seams.

Turns out that gay pride was thwarted by peace; the rainbow flags and banners that said "Pace" were really the doodied-up decorations for a perfectly parfit demonstration of peace. Hip hip hooray for peaceniks in tie-dye, but I was ultimately disappointed that we couldn't all be gay as pink ink. Anyway, after my gelato pick-me-up, which left me blithe in spirit, I was left marveling at the graffiti art, while sprightly skipping thru the streets, feeling jocular in rainbow toe-socks. You know, even under a nervous rain, not everyone can be a graffiti artist. I mean, it takes inventive lettering and something to say, more than a baseless tarradiddle. Maybe I'll drive up to Canada and graffiti something colorfully keen in the snow, nothing marred by verbosity, but rather, a one-word stream-of-consciousness catch-my-drift quip, from a sky-scraping ski lift.

If given the opportunity to aim a Krylon can, w/out arresting consequences, what would your bubble-letter byword be and what site would you choose?