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Vivian Dolores |
Vivian Dolores, she goes to Church every night that they have services. Four nights a week. The tambourine wallpaper, the humble flowers, the preacher brings God to us in paper cups. I keep my head bowed, my head covered. It is nice lace, the hands of Jesus.
The street comes up to her, swallowing her feet, soaking her with concrete sorrow. She drips the tired dew of her limbs into the mouths of the day, the needled teeth, the air with fire lips, unkind, she smiles at the nothing she has always smiled at when there is nothing to smile at.
She walks. Grass with holes in it. Patches of lost grass. She looks for words in between the blades. Where did the dictionary go. I used to have one. Next to the lamp, long neck. Read the magazines, the big books from the markets. Some words don’t make any sense.
The scent of duck and pigeon comb through the wind, palm tree seeds fall on the ground, it is not yet night. There is an eye of light in the sky. Something tired and wonderful: a basket weaved in light with a bleeding heart inside. The sun reminds me of all the other times I have seen the sun. Young man once said it was a flower. Did he fall into the lake? Heavens, that mother should watch her child. Children running, round, boys fishing. Fish with big mouths of mud and other things. It is damn disgusting. A body once they found. Whose was it. Voices on the water sing but not a song. Did anyone come to the lake looking, ever?
The swans swim around the island. Swim through the shadows of long necked trees. Swim through the things we didn’t mean to say, so many yesterdays, barber poles spinning round the spot in my heart where I first found you holding on…KMPC, BEAUTIFUL MUSIC, those were nice songs. Tommy Dorsey was a wonderful man. They made music to feel nice by. We did feel nice. His lips were lace. With Jesus now.
Loud and booming bent the traffic by her dear speckled eyes, loose pools of light waved along the blacktop, the water, the windows winking to the rings of secret stars, the music of pages turning, moments being snapped off of the day, corn from the elote, onto the ground, into the water, ripples in your eyes full with pools of light. Tears from strange eyes. The mother duck has left her nest, the little ones cry. There are so many cars, not from this area, going somewhere else, Echo Park sidewalks are lovely in this light.
The men who cut hair, they listen to that radio station. I have seen them as I passed on my way to church. God is Love. Wings sing in the air, fluttering humming bird soft around the flowers. The walls were still and the moment was papered blue because blue is the color of things that have no time, like a sky.
She walks around the lake on her way to church, her lace on her head. God always sees and wants love always. It is nice to have someone love you far away. God is so far away. I love him because He stays so far away.
The long necks of the white ducks bend with a wind only she could see. Long necks bent like hearts. Souls the shape of boats, the feathers of harps, the neck of waterfalls, swan dreams. Bread, bread for the ghosts. Food for the sun. Sun for the next world. Sun for the blind. Time for the ones that carve diamonds from cloud beds. Sun for Time the Jester and blue wings for those who manage the motion of blood through different necks of still blueness.
The sun is down now.
The night is upon the sighing rooftops. The ducks look for their circles. The pigeons loom lost in the dark eyes of palm trees and clouds, the evening pigeons boom a feathered neck across the sky. The sky holds salt. The sky has lost its blue. Smiles, the old woman at the end of this. Jesus rings a bell. Hallelujah moves down her legs.
copyright 2005
Steve
Abee |
