poem: lost in a myth of my own creation

7 Oct

there’s a scar on her back
and I wonder
is that where the magic starts?

we never met
in an official way,
in a manner appropriate to polite society
and the matron’s of moral manipulation –
we met on the same page,
pulling lines across paper,
searching behind circles
where madness seldom sleeps –

she looked me in the eye,
smiled wide through perfect teeth,
her hand shake firm and confident,
fingers long and slender –

I felt the vortex open,
an F5 tornado across the plains of Kansas,
swirling clouds of dust and rain –

the heat of an Arizona sky drowned me,
I walked defeated back to my car –
200 miles of desert driving –
I thought I heard an echo; I looked back to the east –
nothing but though thunder
and dry lightning arches through gray clouds –

I could not help but to laugh
and shake my head
before returning the nozzle to the gas pump
and retrieving my receipt –

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