Slam Poem for "Unconventional Holiday". |
There was some talk about imposing at a Christmas table, I couldn't be free of that. But my bones were not with the festivities, only with fondling memories, time's own promised refuge. In the brewed heat of a blue hustler with utter sweat I danced the highway of embers into a small room. The tiny Christmas tree somehow set like an ancient raven as I peered into a dark roaming evening as if at a Monastery. The elves were not alive. The curious mirth came from within my heart, as if it were a day beset with sad clowns. I looked ghostly sure that the time I spent with books and letters would create Eurydice's echo. I rushed into the beauty of too many whores, women capsizing with pretty packages, women strange to me. I was not expecting to feast with a man. I posted. The prayers I didn't hear. Heard the public telephone and an impish minotaur romp the streets at the window, transistor radio whine. Yet the glorious sounds of Christmas were joining us together . . . he and I. I could heard the Bells of the Church questioning my loneliness. Haunting me, calling to me. I had hoped he would come to visit. There would be joy. I would feel inner peace. It rained. It did not snow. I dreamed of a pink mulberry Parisian parasol summer and how his umbrella might suddenly keep me dry on a chilling walk through Schenley Park. |