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Every few weeks he grabs a bottle of Drambuie and climbs to the roof to ride the next storm. He waits like an old friend about to welcome it home.
Drenched to the bone and smiling ear to ear he tilts his head back and reaches for blue lightening and waits for the snap as he cottles each sip like a birth-blind tiger.
Wedging himself between two bricks like a seat, he waits for the light-show among the stumped veterans of Manhattan's skyline. Clear church bells of clapping razors explode into pounding thunder as the burden of midnight wakes-up the sea and demands a last dance from swan-necked, elegant slips that hug the tired harbor.
And so the reunion of old friends unfurls between sips of blunt amber that sandpaper's his throat into intimate speech.
What does he say to those lost souls still frozen by fate beneath that mountain of grief? What do they whisper with heads humped together like string-puppet strangers that stay tied by their sorrow?
Whose name does he call as he squats with that half-drained bottle of Drambuie-comfort? What does he see as the blue light from Heaven strikes a tap-dance towards his feet? What does he call his genie-less lamp that hears-out the stories that he shares nowhere else? Here, on this rooftop he is free to breath out the details with all their mystic currents of meaning.
So he stays at his perch that is closest to God and waits until the stories have been finally consumed-
their light absorbed in slow, deliberate sips toward depths cross-channeling forever.
When he finally comes down his soul will be diluted of it's pain, like a sponge left too long in the rain-
empty and spent with nothing left to give and nothing left to get.
Someday I'll ask him to take me to the roof. I want to see what The Little Eyes Of Midnight see when their constellation of stars are blinded by Lightning and deaf with thunder. Should he ever drag me along for those drunken conversations with his God, I will lift my face towards heaven and let his tears run over me. I will shout a prayer in his name:
"Mad God! Mad thoughts! Stalk me with your ruthless plans.
Lure me with your wicked dreams-
Make my heart believe in things.
Punish me for ancient sins. Let me see what might have been.
Let me find what twice was lost. Torture me with everything.
But if you can't bring them back, help me say good-bye to them!"
by KauilaPolu
[ 11-15-2001: Message edited by: KauilaPolu ]
[ 11-15-2001: Message edited by: KauilaPolu ]
Drenched to the bone and smiling ear to ear he tilts his head back and reaches for blue lightening and waits for the snap as he cottles each sip like a birth-blind tiger.
Wedging himself between two bricks like a seat, he waits for the light-show among the stumped veterans of Manhattan's skyline. Clear church bells of clapping razors explode into pounding thunder as the burden of midnight wakes-up the sea and demands a last dance from swan-necked, elegant slips that hug the tired harbor.
And so the reunion of old friends unfurls between sips of blunt amber that sandpaper's his throat into intimate speech.
What does he say to those lost souls still frozen by fate beneath that mountain of grief? What do they whisper with heads humped together like string-puppet strangers that stay tied by their sorrow?
Whose name does he call as he squats with that half-drained bottle of Drambuie-comfort? What does he see as the blue light from Heaven strikes a tap-dance towards his feet? What does he call his genie-less lamp that hears-out the stories that he shares nowhere else? Here, on this rooftop he is free to breath out the details with all their mystic currents of meaning.
So he stays at his perch that is closest to God and waits until the stories have been finally consumed-
their light absorbed in slow, deliberate sips toward depths cross-channeling forever.
When he finally comes down his soul will be diluted of it's pain, like a sponge left too long in the rain-
empty and spent with nothing left to give and nothing left to get.
Someday I'll ask him to take me to the roof. I want to see what The Little Eyes Of Midnight see when their constellation of stars are blinded by Lightning and deaf with thunder. Should he ever drag me along for those drunken conversations with his God, I will lift my face towards heaven and let his tears run over me. I will shout a prayer in his name:
"Mad God! Mad thoughts! Stalk me with your ruthless plans.
Lure me with your wicked dreams-
Make my heart believe in things.
Punish me for ancient sins. Let me see what might have been.
Let me find what twice was lost. Torture me with everything.
But if you can't bring them back, help me say good-bye to them!"
by KauilaPolu
[ 11-15-2001: Message edited by: KauilaPolu ]
[ 11-15-2001: Message edited by: KauilaPolu ]