Born Again Pagan (Unavail. Re-write.)
by Scott Utley
Sorry for the great suffering this has caused the western world and most of the
eastern provinces right over that wall of China to Morea to the Gallapagos
and my hometown downunder, Atlantis, Avalon, and onward.
I telepathize with you. I really do. See the word 'telepathize' used for the very
first time. See Poem ' Word of the DAY ' here for telepathization, origins, etc.
This is a stealth page - usually blank - I use it for experimental work
rarely if ever is it viewed so I take chances I would not normally confess.
2 13 2007
Poetic Justice (Poetica Tritis)
The Mercedes in my rear view mirror is riding my ass, the way only a Mercedes can.
To a lesser degree, BMWs are also rude and notorious for maneuvering disrespectfully through LAs thoroughfares. The first time I experienced hideously bright, obnoxious, halogen headlights, (Which have become ubiquitous in the past year or so.), it was a BMW whom hugged my bumper, searing my retinas with gamma rays. This BMW behind me looks a lot the one that blinded me a year before. As a matter of fact, it looks a great deal like the one behind me. In fact, as a matter of incontrovertible fact, it is the one behind me! I flash back to the night he first tried to goose me. I thought I was being abducted by alien hovercraft. Contrary to my nature, I was at peace with this unexpected news. I thought t myself, finally, a turn of events that doesnt submerge me with the threat of higher taxes and nightmares of crooked judges, law enforcers and lawyers nipping at my wallet and chewing on my soul. Im stoned, but this does not dim my wits. Until Im busted big time, I shall not call it quits. Nevertheless, this is an unusual state of consciousness for me. I prefer a more natural high, like opium or absinthe. But I digress, back to the present. I am driving through the winding, pristine and ancient canyon of Topanga. Ethereal ocean mist sheepishly creeps its way along the canyon walls like a thief in the night, hugging its fractured shoulders like a mother with child leaving the bastards father for the very last time.
The lovers Moon is winking at me with a snide, mischievous smirk. First the mist dissolves, then, conversely, without notice, the coy and sulky orb illuminates the road. Stars twinkle like lights on the international space station above. Abruptly, the very same mist devours the moss-carpeted cliffs, and obscures the edge of nowhere, where, should I miss a turn, to my untimely death I will surly fall. Yet, that BMW is relentless in its insane pursuit of fate. If the truth be known, when death comes it comes misleading in a guise, like a werewolf on a date. All in all, the Moon is a trickster. Beware the Man in the Moon, but not his sister. Shes my guiding light except for a night such as this when He will come full-on into view of my aging, dimming sight. He knows Im vulnerable tonight. Im high. Thats true. But not as high as you. Thats true! And Earths daughter is nowhere near in sight. Shes on the other side of her glorious silver satellite, so Im stranded without her protections. This is the kind of situation that gives perverted men erections. The Man in the Moon has power to alter various destinies, but only during its crescent phase; otherwise, hes banished to the netherworlds, where he sits in a euphoric, bi-polar, state of anxiety. Hes not patient although He knows his day in the sun shall always come. He is to be found exactly where and when he should be found each waxing and waning Moon. Like atomic clock-work, hes right on time but never is he ever too soon. Its not my fault a dear appears from the misty froth of gloom. I did skid to a screeching halt while that tail-gating fool skid unto his preordained doom. They questioned me; the lawyers and the cops, a Gorgon and a goon, in a bright and cheery room. The sun shined yellow gold; after all, it was almost nearly June. It was then I was made aware that the driver, a judge, his lawyer friends, a cop; each called each other buddy, did they depart too soon, landing upturned upon the canyon floor where convergent streams turn muddy. I was a bit beside myself when I learned they burned and burned and burned. Still, I cried foul, perhaps too loud, Im not the one to blame! I feel no remorse and certainly do I feel much shame. I may be irreverent I suppose I am, yes, I guess thats for sure. And Im sad they left this world so young and way, way, way too soon. But you see Im pleasantly respectful, unlike that judge, just another SOB and quite a great buffoon.
Posted on 01/20/2007
Copyright © 2019 Scott Utley
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Genevieve Sturrock on 02/19/07 at 02:35 PM|
i do not live anywhere near canyon walls or roads with mortal hazards close by...but there have been times when i sincerely wished i did as i am blinded by the "hideously bright, obnoxious, halogen headlights"....i enjoyed this immensely.
|Posted by A. Paige White on 05/25/07 at 06:16 PM|
"where he sits in a euphoric, bi-polar, state of anxiety." roflol... this describes most of America! Loving your writes, man, loving them!
|Posted by Timothy Wilson on 01/10/11 at 04:47 AM|