Purging
Like an intoxicated child early Christmas morning, I skip and whistle to your shelves and open your leaves. . . Ribbons and paper float in suspended time; lettered elves dance in the blessed moonshine. Oh! What joy. . . I am locked in a candy shop, Sugar plum fairies drip from your tounge!
Your words are like the licorice in the crystal jug
on Mr. Wonka's counter top--
ripening with age to perfection and divine inspiration like Bacchus's grape of the immortal vine!
I tip-toe. . .my dirty little hands grasp the counter top, my snot nose pressed against the cool, crystal glass; magic frost created with my breath,
and my childish eyes longingly peer,
my heart pines and burns with heavenly fears! I smell the language of the liquored life; it swirls and whirls in the aromaed atmosphere! Oh Emily! You were right when you said 'inebriate of air!'
My opportunity has come to attain
the spices of Sages and of ages,
and as I pull the jug with my clumsy paws, the liquored licorice leaks to the floor. And I, so unworthy to eat beneath thy table, accept the wine of your words painfully spilt for me.
I swim in the liquid lake on the floor,
I gorge on the licorice! You make me giddy! I teater, tip, and tumble in the candied letter puddle. The old people shake their heads when they see me drunk, I pay no heed. I dance, I sing in the moonshiner's still!
The tanager Tippler pecks and chirps at my door, and feather in hand, we soar through the leaves. She challenges me to infinite, dizzing heights, She flutters and trips, waving among the trees, Compsoing the words that sing to me.
In the morning, an eternal aching forever reminds me of the innocent, indulgent bindging of my mind; Your breath, still smelling of licorice, lies open in my hand. A queasy feeling shivers in my gut and trips through my veins, my heart flutters, and eyes gain that glassy countenance; and at last, sweet beads of Eidolons past purge my knitted brow.
Back to Issue 7 - Table of Contents
Back to the Scroll
Updated Thursday, 04-Mar-2004 14:58:31 PST