Friday, November 10, 2017

Abigail


It must have been a strange sensation
navigating tension neuroses, from space
unoccupied
Flesh and blood appear alike,
at least enough to be identifiable,
with some of the odd
idiosyncrasies
            Continuations

Amorphous without clearly
delineated courses, spinning cones
shape clay into something
unrecognizable
The day, shifting into hazy dusk,
drifting into Fall, sullen steps,
tracks uncovered

You bought me a tape,
King Diamond’s Abigail, when you took
me to the driving range
at some weird little record store
adjacent to a gas station in exurbs,
still in the 1980’s,
Sandy Plains

The weird little ways to make
connections
with those who are thirteen
Oh, the horror spared you
in the lyric sheet
Lines compelled to cross,
inverted

Despite all sacred text, best laid
inversions stare back oblivious
to righteous origins
In brooding emaciation, the years affixed,
ungrateful and unknowing
lacking comfort and dignity
in your generations’ passing


Matt Mauldin
11/2017
Santa Barbara, CA

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