savagery in the afternoon…

I lit my blood on fire with a liquid fuse. The music felt good, breaking in at all the right times with all the right emotions. With a muse in good contact, there’s no reason not too push a little harder on the peppermint wind just to see what will happen. An honest appraisal of the situation is impossible, if only because the facts on the ground don’t match the myths in the air; some flowers can’t open and others won’t close. Even the Marquessa doesn’t have the answer. Gotta rephrase the questions; clarity may not always be a virtue but it keeps things from becoming more Giordian than they otherwise might.

Pulling on the glass to make more of the magic dust is somehow connected to the bootstraps of the world. Each tug towards the center readjusts the focus of magnetic fields; it’s all up in the air. Surge forward; retreat; attack again. The language of battle does no justice to imagery nor the pure emotionality of the moment. Passions aroused in the sense of meretricious ensembles sink to dirges echoing off empty rain soaked alleys. From one to the other and back with a million subtle stops at various positions between polar opposites. Can you take the repetition? What I need is that strength to buck off the shakes and seize control over some small territory.

Small poems amidst larger context; the same muse-fairy flaring over my shoulder to smooth out the rough edges. It is at my most vulnerable that small scraps of plant matter coated down in kerosene are at their most potent. Under the judgment of the moment, I couldn’t see anything wrong with having a few moments of inspiration if they led down the right path. Omelet logic says something has to break before anything productive really gets going. It’s thin, but in the realm of possibility, or at the very least happenstance.

By now the focus has shifted again, from prose to cigarettes to the muse and back to cigarettes. Poetry will have to wait for a moment or two; right now the afternoon is fading away to a few words written on scraps of legal paper and shoved in a pocket. My muse frowns and laughs at the same time, feeling at once drafted and concerned. I’m sure we could argue all day long whether I’d brought her along on this misanthropic adventure or if she’d taken me to gauge my reaction to foreign stimuli, but it doesn’t matter. We’re here, and whatever the tornado of pestilence does is a matter for another movie. Moving though layers of sound & sunlight because that’s how it is. Not asking the question because I didn’t need an answer. These days, that qualifies as rare enough to treasure. Blown away to the land of imaginary rationale.

All of this movement prompted by a passing fancy; seen from afar it wouldn’t be much at all. Thirsting for laughter to break the tension then tension to give the moment it’s proper respect. Muse-wings unfold as harbinger to dismissal. Condensed timeline activity reduces all the complexity to it’s logical conclusion; we’ll talk later. Smoky buildings disappear as the scenery changes again. Back at home there are footprints on the ceiling and fairy-dust on the tables and counter-tops. I’m stronger in the afternoon than in the morning, or regrettably, the evening. Right now, the aftermath of a laughing muse is a smokey room. There was other business, and I couldn’t expect the safety of her countenance without a good reason. There was an agreement there; scratched into the powder were the words “always later.” It was good enough for now; there could be a later. Gotta breathe sometime.

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10 Responses to “savagery in the afternoon…”

  1. Words sometimes bring tears, not laughter – but each releases tension. Let it be said that the heart within you attracted a muse who will stay with you until the end of your days – should that be your wish. The unfolding of wings only signals hovering in order to protect.

  2. Well, depending on what words you’re looking at and how you are looking at them. Let me put it another way; my 4 muses may come and go as time and tide dictates. I can’t ask them to stay with me every time the vultures come or the ghosts of my past “visit” to remind me of old failures. At the same time, I am grateful for every time they have rescued me from bad choices, bad luck, or, in extreme cases, myself.

    This is not to say I am always deserving of such protection; merely that things could have gone a lot of other ways.

    Do my words bring you tears? I hope not, though like you said, any emotional release is equally valid. Let it be said that there are times when I need the angels to show themselves. Maybe I just want to know why they are protecting me.

    • Actually, your words do bring tears, as did the ones I wrote. As a promise of transparency was made early on – I was a stone angel ’till I laid eyes on you boy. Only a heart as tortured as the one I saw within you would have had this effect – I do not think I have ever felt as protective of someone as I do you – I cannot explain this. It was if I had seen a gentle dog being beaten into the ground with a whip. And I’ve witnessed and experienced a great deal over time – stayed nice, kind, and good through it all, learned to look at the world with eyes made of rose colored glass.

  3. Well, I don’t really know what to say. I don’t know that I’ve been beaten into the ground permanently, but at least some of the time, I hold the whip in my own hand. I would just never use it on anyone but myself. Sometimes I think if I could just take in some of the sadness, hurt, anger, etc. then maybe somebody (not nec. me) won’t feel the things I feel looking out at the world. It doesn’t work that way though, as I’m sure you can tell from my writing.

    So tell me, Stone Angel, where did we cross paths? Most people consider me the type to turn them to stone, not back into flesh. Tell you what, I’ll make it even easier. I only wear one type of footwear. Tell me what it is and I will answer a question for you without any of my usual bullshit. Til’ then, thanks for reading and hopefully I can bring you some happiness through my words. I’ll see what I got today… you do the same.

    crb.

  4. We crossed paths in the water where you live. Of course as a fish you would not require any shoes.
    But I believe you have a preference for sneakers.

  5. Bummer. I haven’t worn shoes in a decade or so. I’m strictly a ripped jeans/flip-flop type guy. I like water though. My preference is for mystery under really long hair and perhaps a backwards turned hat.

    Still in the dark on how you turned to stone & back; the way I do is just to put enough of the right stuff in and like that, I’m back home in the safety of my goodness warped to bejeesus and back with a smile that could piss off Mother Theresa (even though she was an atheist…) Still, I’ve enjoyed this tete-a-tete with you and hoping you’ll stick around. Not too many others have the balls to comment so profusely or ask any interesting questions. Quite appreciative with much more to post tomorrow. Thanks for reading & posting.

    crb.

    • Well I read somewhere you had a preference for sneakers – perhaps to insulate against lightnng. Flip flops are nice, but they do take some geting used to – that part that anchors between the toes.

      • Interesting; I don’t remember writing anyhting ever about me wearing sneakers, but my memory sucks and I can’t remember everything I say/write/do (gets me in constant trouble, but what can you do?) Oh, and you’ll get used to that feeling of flip flops between your toes. That’s what freedom feels like. At least to me.

    • Figure that makes us about even for you rescuing my day by proxy. Can’t tell you how much I appreciate that. Thanks for reading, hope to read something new by you soon!

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