She Walks Like A Petite Dinosaur
Through the spit-stained and crack-riddled streets of darkened Philadelphia.
But she is my angel.
She rips and tears and renders me helpless …
But she is my beloved.
Her mind is fused with a body that demands stimulus: her body and mind are one and she is whole. But she falters at the very edge of pure human experience, and makes art of her variable self.
She is pure in mind, but gored in spirit.
Her face is a reflection of that aeonic image of eternal production that makes artists of us all.
She sings like an angel and scrapes like a beast:
Her hair is perfect.
I tasted her for a moment and entered a portal beyond which lies a darkness that I simply cannot enter.
No: will not enter. I’m not going to offer explanations to Dante and Virgil …
My explanation is to this white space upon which I type these words.
The love of a man for a woman is a mystery and a chalice, one from which all should drink, sacramentally, liturgically, whatever the fuck you want to say …
But the purpose here is to remind myself of the mellifluous little lady (short and cute) that I’ve lost.
Scum seeps into the streets of every life that draws sustenance from this earth that feeds us all …
Walk away or stick around and get infected by the common sweat and all of its bacteria – all that oozes from the graying skin of dying humanity.
The purity resides when a rather naïve and fetishistic man places his mouth on a worldly goddess …
The body … oh, the body!
Memory tries, but it never fails, no matter how severe the eruption of tainted dreams into the sleeping brain of a bereaved body.
