High on Spring Blues

I wrote this poem a few years ago, on the first spring after my little brother flew out of his flesh and bones. I remember thinking that loss alters the way most of us relate to everything… even the changes of the season.   

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There’s birdsong on my page…
words I planted in midnight soil
are blooming memories of you.

Louder than death and time,
your soul sings to me of life:

“Dance your sobs
into undying laughter,”

I hear you chant,

“let the joy lift your heart
(high on Spring Blues)
and stitch our eternal tale
on the ventricular walls
of my forever home.”

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Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform.

I’m an Angel

Experience taught my kind to avoid public bathrooms. But since experience can’t argue with a full bladder, I took an exit that welcomed drivers to The Idle.

I parked behind some empty chairs that faced traffic. For car watching? I thought, but biology overruled curiosity, and my need for release sent me rushing into a gift shop in search of a bathroom that was, of course, all the way in the back.

A framed sign, taped between doors labeled His and Hers, read: Ask store attendant for key. I read it again, as my bladder screamed that it would not make it back to the front of the shop without exploding.

Showing my bladder that flesh was weaker than thought, I approached the cashier, and said, “May I borrow your bathroom key?”

He looked beyond my face. I wanted to think that he was admiring my glorious hair, but knew he was staring at the hint of wing tattoo escaping the top of my sweater.

“Male or female?” he said.

“What?” The question surprised me. Angels weren’t common in cold cities, but myth and reality merged decades ago. Our physiology was no secret.

“Men’s or women’s bathroom?” he said, in a louder voice.

“I’m an angel,” I said, feeling flustered. “I’m not in love right now, so… I’m neither and both. I mean… any bathroom. I just need to pee. Any key will—”

“We’ve no restrooms for people who can’t tell.”

“Who can’t tell what?” A surge of mixed emotions set my skin aglow, then the man reached under the counter, and my wings and sword burst fully out of my thoughts.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he shouted, brandishing a crucifix between us.

Wings retracted and sword returned to non-being, I walked away from the trembling fool, too furious to apologize for the puddle my bladder rained on his filthy floor.

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the wee notes…
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Mythical Prejudice (Poetry and Flash Fiction with Magaly): write a 3-stanza poem or a very short story (313 words or fewer) that explores prejudice from the point of view of a mythical creature who is part of our modern world.
– Many mythologies and theologies speak of angels as sexless and/or genderless. So, I’ve wondered how these beings might be treated if they were citizens of a world that is very much like ours, but where myth has become reality.
The Idle (still in the making) a tourist attraction in Indiana, which will involve rows of chairs “overlooking the downtown’s interstate”. The idea behind the “attraction” is that some people might enjoy watching traffic… as long as they are not stuck in it.

She’s So Full of Herself

I was going to bed and my stomach laughed at my presumptuous ways. So, I decided to stop trying to dream with my eyes closed, and chose to spend time leafing through bookish dreams instead—books never laugh at me (too loudly *cough*).

Cinderella Skeleton, by Robert D. San Souci, came first. This Cinderella story makes more sense to me than most. I mean, as the picture below suggests, Prince Charming is obviously a forensic anthropologist with a thing for women’s bones… and shoes, which completely explains why he can identify his soulmate by a dismembered limb and not, for instance, by the depth of her conversation or unforgettable eye sockets.

I left the fairy tale to visit The Devil’s Rose, by BROM. As always, his words and art are dark and delicious. This particular book includes very few images with flesh on them, so I decided to show you this one… Well, part of it, since the rest is drenched in blood, and on the way to also being defleshed—dearest BROM delights in creepy.

Speaking of bloody and creepy and nailed, my delicious Piano Man got me a copy of Harlequin Valentine, written by Neil Gaiman and illustrated by John Bolton. Yep, he loves me that much… Nothing says I love you like Gaiman, nails and bloody hearts.

And because everything deserves loving and cuddling, I read a few poems from The Sex Lives of Monsters, by Helen Marshall. It was a present from Rommy—it seems that she, too, knows me. I must remember to ask her how long it took her to realize that I’m extremely fond of giant eyeballs, ribcages, spines and dreamcatchers.

After three hours of book-dreaming, my stomach was still being a royal bastard. So, I walked to the terrace to talk to my plants in the dark… just to find out that the moon was completely full of herself, and the darkness had to dance in the shadows…

The dark and the moon playing their natural games made me smile. With a grin on my tired face, I went inside to collect some flower petals I had been drying for a day or 3, and offered them to the moon. She didn’t wink in appreciation or anything, but my tummy was finally ready to let me sleep.

How do you capture sleep when it does not want to play, my Wicked Luvs?