Seasonal And Holidays Past Journal

Love Is A Gamble

Concerning the summer of 1976.

On this summer's last day having read
all about Kingsor's flaming rouge bride
a colorful tete-a-tete cooled over a month's
ration of hot expresso coffee, so that's it.

The carpenters shingle the roof
of this dream
as well-constructed as Gertrude's piano,
bending

with the spectrum of promising light through
a primary school prism. The odor of the cat
litter box, Oz's only fuzzy scent, was what

all came after, all after the day you tiled
the floor , dreaming about a bath in a hot
tub.

Together we could be only as close
as being close to you could be and as
fast as Tabishia wised it could be.
We rode a royal cockhorse sternly listening
for the missing good parts of the stories
told by a blonde German father who wrote
Anglo-Saxon prayers and who studied Huang Ti ('en)
letters to Kim and Jim avidly.

I dream of you saying in time, "Seaside lemons," feverishly
"leave me the NY Times and don't forget to
water your plants,

baby." You have gone off to lay in the sun
or play with the mistake sheets, off to buy
gorgeous groceries, out to lunch.

Oh, your feet were icy at first but warmer
later when the dawn was as sticky as molasses,
as I dreamed of Mr. Atlas

and the flair I had for dreaming about world
atlas maps at the same time like an
enthusiast for traveling. It was too much
fun to think of your loud black sock, the one
you couldn't find and the tuna casserole I
fixed for your love.

Love is a gamble. All a very real gamble.
A kiss hung in the balance and the birds
in the trees laced the shrill sounds to
a wedded future.

I wanted to buy all the chances to love you
even in to late December. I was telling
the fashion model all about
how I like to speak of cold winters
where summer is in bloom somewhere else,
a a pensive moment. The fashion model
justed wanted to keep quiet, so I shoved
the party food from my plate with the French
word for garbage` knowing anything subliminal
was as lost as fool's gold.
She finally said, "Why haven't you found
a cure for sharing secrets? Hmm?"

I am breathing timid fire. My love letters
now posted, I will be searing for your love,
lost with the purple domino madonna's
housecoat on. I asked too many city poets
how it sounds to buy up all of the city's
bleeding flowers.

All I can seem to hear is the cry of the
fashion model again,
who asks, "Will Apollo and Venus be coming late
to the garden party for Beethoven's funeral?"
I smile and whisper to her that I know them
both to be dead.