A Prayer For Kathy. by Will Dockery

A Prayer For Kathy.

So it is back,
the demon enemy.
I will love you
6 or 6000
we will meet again
on that shore.

Engine exhaust
from the car ahead
looks like ghost horses.

So this is the wait
shopping for clothing.
Good friends,
I love you.

Bitter salty tears,
and a smile
for what we shared.

Kathy,
golden blonde hair,
eyes bluer than the sky.
I will gladly die
to be with you if I must.

Sweet memory
of our kiss.
I cry and cry and cry and cry,
and pray.

-Will Dockery 2004

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Ironywaves

(Will Dockery) wrote in message ...
 > A Prayer For Kathy.
 >
 > So it is back,
 > the demon enemy.
 > I will love you
 > 6 or 6000
 > we will meet again
 > on that shore.
 >
 > Engine exhaust
 > from the car ahead
 > looks like ghost horses.
 >
 > So this is the wait
 > shopping for clothing.
 > Good friends,
 > I love you.
 >
 > Bitter salty tears,
 > and a smile
 > for what we shared.
 >
 > Kathy,
 > golden blonde hair,
 > eyes bluer than the sky.
 > I will gladly die
 > to be with you if I must.
 >
 > Sweet memory
 > of our kiss.
 > I cry and cry and cry and cry,
 > and pray.
 >
 > -Will Dockery 2004
 >
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Hell, all this crying. . . and praying too. It's enough to resurrect
pharaohs from tombs in artless strip-mall bars where the swapping of
beautiful commonplaces and the death of wasted flesh flits through the
air like lawn jarts thrown from the gnarled claws of a bony reptilian
drunk wearing a shirt that says "Hell, the way I sees it, what if we
work two days and fish five?"

Your brain works fastest when, for instance, your head is stuck in a
midieval crushing apparatus as the orangutan pulls. That's usually
what it takes. Genius, however, is different. The thing that crushes
genius is the silence of petty souls to scared to see. The spiteful
silence, that is, that genius so often encounters. I'm talking about
S. Anderson in Chicago, or Sterne, or Shakespeare, or Bukowski, or
Kant, or Burroughs, or old dependable Schopenhauer of course, sitting
at the round table in the Englischer Hof, his jaw set, his brilliant
beast-eyes narrowed at the waitress in the distance, as a napkin gets
choked in his angry fist. And as she approaches, "Would you like cream
with that, sir?" "Arruhmmmm," he says, forcing a smile, "why
certainly." Cut to wadded napkin falling out of fist under table.
Anyway, this has nothing to do with Hemingway. And I'm not talking
about Kerouac either. You can have them. You can have Ring Lardner and
O. Henry and H. Miller too. And you can smoke a Tampa cigar from out
of Ginsberg's bazoo, if you please. I'll take Chekhov though. In a
sense, I already did, take his face. When he was young, it's me.

I am dying now,
my mangled limbs nerve endings
like roach antennae,
my eyes orbs floating
liquid-red and slimy,
like leaches in a stream
floating to suck
something unnecessary
in the black glowing moonlit lagoon
of the multitude,
in the night gilt-edged like lamplit rats
chewing either side of
the cheese of my
slowing rotting brain
as I strain
to see
(as if through a looking-glass)
the corpses
of little girls
in summer dresses
(this is 1941, by the way)
playing
in the knife-splintered
sunlight,
in the green
green
meadow
I see
the bones
of pretty little
girls
twirling.

--

I am to blame if ever I hedge my words for termites,
and the sky is bright and clear today,
and even in this light
the rats have a line on my blood,
they're alright,
if devouring in luxury,
the wool of false pleasures
is forever being pulled over their eyes,
and that failing sunlight,
and that the chasing of the Gulf Stream,
and the meteors we once knew
revealed by the forces
of geology, phrenology
and the noose of time

I'll bet a dozen of her dreams
they'll be dead
by daylight.

--

I like writing about
fallen leaves and crows
women mainly
and the trembling blackjack hands
of a dealer with eyes
like meatballs
slinging shots of whisky
across a table surrounded by men
with faces smug as turds
with armpits smelling of polecat
and with dreams
as hideous as a gnarled black tree
in a bleak
autumn
landscape,

November.