Dirty Feet (Ipswich 10/31/07)
The world. The world. It swirled, the world, and white was black was white was color. And then the words in twos and fours impatient came and called names, laid blame. And the silence was violent and empty and the stillness was full of sounds. Alone was undone and I was the one put paid to for dirty hands.
Why? I didn’t understand.
And I righted what was left I thought and I begged and I bought but the prices were high and I couldn’t fly anymore. Dirty wings.
Oh the things I would sing and I would sing and sing and the people would bring flowers and gifts and children with fits would calm and give alms in the streets.
There were taunts and jeers and I fled in tears. Streaked face, my face, my dirty face.
The colors used to dance for me in this magic book and the words would flow in to steady rows and salute. I’m destitute. I’m alone. And I go and I go. I’m trying to grow. To be bigger. To be stronger, branches get longer. Why can’t I just leave?
Feet wont walk. Mouth wont talk. Eyes won’t see. Hands grope and hands touch. Hands sense and hands feel. “What is there? What is there Dirty Hands?”
“Be clean. It’s a dream. Wake up. Please wake up.” And I tear at my skin. Let me in. Let me in. Let me out. Get me out of this place. A well? A hell? A falling for sure. A down without out but not nearly the end. No final amen and a choir on high. I wont die.
“Colors stop coming! Where are your lines? Who stole the designs of this life?” A knife to the pages or better a torch. A threat in a flame. “Say my name. Say my proper name Words. I am good, though I’m sullied and not to be bullied and I know I know how to sing.”
Dirty life dances in cold rain. Pleads for clean. And I spin and I spin and focus comes in for a moment, an instant and the tempos they match. Words line up as they hatch.
I collapse. Still dirty. Now dizzy. But the bitter is sweet for my dirty feet.
Dirty feet washed little more clean.