Sky Dive

There are certain moments when you know there is nothin’ for it but to fall

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Catapulted

Right off the ground

I knew straight up

There was nothin’ for it

So I spread my arms

On the ascend and lifted my chin

And while the numbing wind

Blew through my hair

I thought I’ll take a moment

To just forget.

I’ll forget the memory of

The smashing that is coming

The splat on the grass

And the certain tumbling.

I’ll forget the fact that

Being screwed over is

My own fault here in

The twenty-first century.

There is no excuse for tender

Moments and forgetting

The power of lust.

My eyes wide open and

A surge of adrenalin

Blue sky and white cloud all

On the horizon

But here it comes that

Mild descent.  I guess I’ll

Just close my eyes, pause

And dive.

The Beautiful

I’m not dead yet – but the beautiful is.

I read romance novels when in high school; wild and glorious sex and I thought about dying a virgin.

I’m not dead yet – but the beautiful is.  I saw her in the obituaries a couple days ago – and now her funeral is just across the street, in a stately Catholic church, but I won’t go.

First of all, because it’s Friday, second because I don’t want to see anyone dead today.

She was beautiful when she was young, very much so but her photograph for the obituary was only vaguely beautiful – what I call a George Orwell beautiful.  Remember, in the novel, 1984 remember?  He made love, the hero, and he was afraid of rats, and he thought the lower class, the ignorant lower class, had a moment in time, a brief, glorious moment in time when their women, young girls, were gloriously beautiful.  Then of course they married, had children, thickened around the waist and did all their laundry by hand — so became lumps.

Well, listen, George, some of us are born lumps, stay lumps, then fade from memory – never close to glory.

Back to the beautiful.

She wore the short skirt of a cheerleader, and she was, I’m sorry to say, loud.  Her obituary says she was kind and gentle – she wasn’t when she was eighteen, thirty years ago now.

I won’t tempt fate (that’s 21st-century I-don’t-believe-in-God gibberish), so I’ll say, hey “rest in peace,” when the hearse pulls out, and her parents follow behind.

You see I got over the romance novels and followed up with Jane Eyre and all of Austen.  They didn’t pull any punches, the good are not rewarded, and the only defense an unbeautiful has is a dry humor and endurance.

I’ve never given up my conservative bent toward human nature because of the books I’ve read – we all fall short, don’t we.

What I’m trying to say is being unbeautiful, and realizing the lies of romance and gravity-defying sex, gave me a jump up.  Losing my virginity was a terrible experience – I really should have waited for someone who cared but then perhaps I would have died a virgin.  Perhaps I will die a virgin anyway, living on a technicality.

So when the hearse of the once beautiful pulls out, I’ll stand at my window, still standing as an unbeautiful, but still standing.  I will say a prayer to a God that no one believes in really, words that people disdain ( how do you know, how can you be sure).  I’ll pray because I’m sure that as surely as the beautiful die and fade and my teeth grind at all the lies little princesses are fed, we do not end up in glass coffins but in lead.

 

Photo by Greg Ortega on Unsplash