Taste the halo.
Around, a round
the tiger lily elbows
her way through a crowded room,
let me inspect the pathways
from amber gold
to ripened gods.
Fox-trotting in from the fifteenth baked potato and enlivened by real experiences.
I once knew a girl who spoke with such conviction about matters of hearts, stones, and dead stars. She knew exactly what she wanted, more precisely what she didn’t want, and nobody could sway her stances. No sly smile from a youth, no alluring laugh from a maiden with rose petals for breath and espresso for composure.
But certainty did not grant this girl freedom or satisfaction. It gave her a script that could be recited ad infinitum. She had believed that simply knowing what to say was sufficient. People are, after all, words, words, words. No more.
Then one day, out of the blue, after having spent months with organic decomposers and one memorable evening in the bosom of a great goddess of love, she outgrew her shoes. People are so much more than words, synapses, even heart beats. People are portals to unseen worlds. You just have to know how to look into their souls.
So this girl put on a pair of argyle socks, brushed out her hair, and packed a satchel full of curiosity and instinct. With neither fear nor regret, she steadied her footing. With a gray wolf at her side and a bald eagle aloft as a guide, the girl with the argyle socks leaped into the chasm below and didn’t look back.
She wasn’t counting on the man with the rifle to catch her any more than she was expecting a shape-shifting, sweet prince to materialize and haul her onto a robust ledge, or a lithe prolate spheroid-seeker to tackle her with the utmost grace.
The girl with the argyle socks was just hoping that the man with the rifle wouldn’t absent himself again overnight while she slept. The girl with the argyle socks was just hoping that as he saw her fly by, that he would grab a hold of her wrists and take the plunge as well.
A version of this entry was originally posted here.