A Pocket Full of Chicken

I wait like a silent duck, or a moo-cow. Becauses it is morning, I shall hang on, a little, for my spirits. The picture on T.V. is of Christ: a still screen of The Savior's face. But the V-hold goes out, and the zig-zag of the screen makes me yell. "You shall not fall!"

 Please rock no more, I say to the child who rides the rocking horse in the next room. "But if you do fall, please, don't come to me." I do not understand tears. I do not have that kind of pain.

 I cry for mortals. And Christ is in me, somehow, especially when I'm mad and medicated.

I wish I could have been rocking. Instead, as the blisters on my feet let me know I could adapt.

Does God adapt?

Or have I adapted to being a drunk, with the visionary madness of a drowning duck, a moocow going to the butcher!

No, not me. I am here, and you silence me to perfect gloom. I'll be here again next week, at the same spot where you found me. A rolled cigarette and a post card of the Last Supper crumpled in my parka pocket, next to the piece of greasy chicken and a slice of cake wrapped in a napkin.

 

Reviews

[Pax Analog]

Highly amusing and real, redolent of Dada, surrealism -- & the backhanded wit of mad suffering.

At first I think of Apollinaire, then the aforementioned cliques, & at last I'm reminded of crazy wisdom master Adi Da telling his disciples he wished they would get it, so he could resign from teaching & "roll around eating owl sandwiches."

All is madness, in truth. There are just higher shades of it than disturbed psyches or mere consensus normality.

You're on your way to translating lower madness into higher madness (the latter is distinguished by unreasonable good humor) ;-)

[seaNobody]

A choppy piece, it needs to be refined. I like the title, but it needs more description. The room with the boy in it, rocking and the relationship of the wooden horse to the wooden cross. Hmmm

[Emily B]

oh, wow!