Deviation Actions
Aside from Selfish
Scrawls in the Sand:
A
poem for Candice
by Gregory Killam
One night I dreamed you
were walking along
the beach with the lord.
Rainbows from your lips
splashed scenes from
your life across the sky.
(In each scene I sort of
kind of noticed
footprints in the sand.)
Each new technicolor
scene was viscous
runny with fresh
printer's ink, hot from
the pipe dream presses.
Every pageant was
raw and wet and
could still change it's
underlying shape
as if
as if you had
you had maybe not
wanted to complete the
picture. Act. Don't say
cut
just
yet.
Leave room for the
clouds.
Leave room for the
black birds.
For they must come out
as well. You say:
“We can't just have
colors in a heaven-
proof house. I' does
not work that way.”
And yet inside the clouds
I see more rainbows
lurking and still more
refracted from the
black bird's wings.
And I know it can't be
And I hope it can't be
I doubt it is that you
just don't want to see
the ink sprayed from
these words. That words
can't do that and cover
and change and remember
and forget at the same time
The hour grows late
and sense starts to grow
nonsense as a weary
wageslave stubbles into
his five-o-clock shadow
(Hey, just in time to press
it to the cheeks of those
he loves the most.)
Today's colors have either
dried into memory or
merged in a mauve puddle.
And what have we
to show for it? Anything?
A cautionary tale or
a picture postcard?
I can at best wish that
everything has changed
just a little bit. Because
in a brave new world
that isn't so new at all
(and far from brave)
the giant leaps of mankind
are lost in our
own
small
footprints.
