Kurt Vonnegut and Easter

i will be back in an hour he said
as he grabbed his hat and left
the feeling of sunset arising early in the morning
left Mary's head spinning.

it seemed they had only just begun.

the kitchen smelled of caraways seeds and olive oil
on Easter Sunday
all the butter and fluff and tinsel
couldn't make up for too much familiarity

after an hour had passed
it seemed eternity did an impression
of 2000 years of human turmoil
filled with misunderstanding
of what is sacred
what is seed
what is fruit
and where was he?

so she grabbed her hat and stepped out.
feeling naked as she combed the city searching

the grass was pregnant with eggs
and every passerby
was a parade of apparitions
pale imitations of him
that faded when she neared.

as she wandered
as she wondered
what would come next?
one thought echoed down through eternity
from a great master
who saw straight to the heart of humanity...

 "Since Alice had never received any religious instruction, and since she had led a blameless life, she never thought of her awful luck as being anything but accidents in a very busy place. Good for her."

"So it goes."  - Kurt Vonnegut

Letters

Letters

i have written you many,

at night,

dim light,

light of the moon,

not hurried, not sullen,

contemplative,

i swoon.

i write them in pencil,

in case i mistake.

i write them in sweet,

i write them in gray.

a silhouette of all that i feel

i yield,

and let it become real...

i move it thru my hand....

a scratch on the pad,

a memory, a vision,

a thought that i had

and then like an itch

in one foul stroke

i crumble it up,

all that i wrote

i wanted to tell you

about the wind,

and the way it caresses

so many things....

and it reminds me of a way late, late at night

before the dew cracks

and thoughts of night,

to run my hands down the small of your back....

alas....

my hand stops on the page...

and crumbles it up,

to send it away...

each scribbled word,

each uttered ideal.

each shattered world,

each humble appeal.

and lights it on fire,

like a pine-bough in the night,

all faces revealed,

in the flaring of light.

un-uttered, un-heard.

i lost every word,

with the light of a match...

everything i said, burned...

each fumbled sentence revealing a sweetness;

i could not let you catch.

cause i never could send

a thing that i wrote.

so i set them on fire.

each 

individual 

note.