Monday, January 26, 2015

A Frantic Band of Pilgrims

Looking out beyond the beyond I yawned and took a rusted lawn mower out from behind the shed.  I rode it nobly past the lookers and the mannequin-like ladies while they waited for a table at the mall.  They’ve been recently mining the moments of madness found in going both ways between the lorn and the forlorn, the storm and the sanctuary, the bare breasts of their sensual sisters and the naked loins of their lovers.  I cut the grass while I was at it, put every crass thought in a basket and tossed it heroically to the gathering crowd, along with cuttings for their compost, the leavings of my lost weekend, and the grievings of my organic speculation.  “My weak side is stronger than your strong side ever was,” I said to the man waiting for a ride on my mower.  “And my tongue is considerably longer than your muscle-bound neck.  But you already knew that.”  Larger men than me have made much smaller impressions of the object of their affections in the wet cement every other Sunday after mass.
But when church let out I parallel parked my rusty mower.  I parked it for the first time, and the last.  I left it there forever, never to be straddled by my rubber legs again.  No time left to ride it now.  Just too much friggin’ traffic, I deduced with my very own vividly precocious, and slightly remarkable mind.  Recently blessed General-Motors jockeys have been racing frenzied through the fog like a frantic band of pilgrims, stumbling blindly in a storm towards Mecca, wearing silly smiles, and stretching blocks like a vague mirage.  Blurs are all that’s left lingering when the caravan goes by.  Colors, once streaked and floating, now choking the breath from my lungs, the sight from my eyes, the life from my soul, stirring it up like a chilly wind, like a confessional of sin, and the wicked grin of madness.  All is lost now, it seems, except the sadness in dying, the death in being sad, the last one left in line before the window closes for another sorry night.  That, of course, and the perpetually hysterical pace of tomorrows chronic paupers waiting patiently to die.
Or maybe waiting for a ride on my now abandoned mower.
Whichever happens to be more important at the time, I guess.