The outer shell was God/seeker, the inner was all making/out. All of those poor girls really thought I was praising God next to them.
It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver seaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat -- and at night
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.
-Sharon Olds
I cannot do this.
This was a pretty depressing reflection, but only because I was so fake. I should have seen through the Sundayschool lessons about Baptist Camp that told me to be ashamed of wanting to kiss and touch there. I am the one who--instead of changing--facaded my way to their lips.
Love,
Paul
Post Script:
The explosions in the sky show was glorious. Ther were a lot of interesting souls there. Thinking about the bouncers--how they laugh at the silly kids and there silly music--and how they are necessary for these things to happen. We coexist/ed. There were a lot of sappy girls there, flowers in hair to match the ones on their silly dresses. A few Indian guys were carying pitchers of amber colored beer around and tried to get past the mohawked female tattooed bouncer, but she wouldn't allow it.
I'm in the process of redishing the rear wheel of my bike. Since we survive a dirt road and desert terrain, I have a chance to really take shit apart, including my almost inner city soul.
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