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For begging beauty one can hardly blame the artist sleeping like butter in the sun taking no action for action some prefer being a yellow rose petal I learned when I traveled the young poet saying a prayer is a form of panic
Copyright © 2011 by Jane Miller. Used with permission of the author.
Life’s ironies irritate my afternoon hours like wool. One, I’m in a foreign country in my own head; two, I’m sometimes lonely living with two women; three, people are having sex in shop windows but we haven’t made love in weeks; four, the more Alexis smokes, the better her singing voice; the more I clean up, the more I feel like Alexis’ ashtray; the more I read, the more I lose my place. Unsettled, I get hungry, and remember pears and young Gouda in the refrigerator. I throw down my books.
Do you know how long it has been since a moral choice presented itself and the wrong choice was made not two minutes why is it not quiet between lightning and thunder as if someone were asking do you have other articulable feelings if so express them now tragedy ensues with a laser blast from the cockpit the dangled finger of God makes contact PLEASE CALL FOR SEVERAL THOUSAND PHYSICIANS QUICKLY