Matthew Lickona 8 p.m., Dec. 17
- Community Blog
- Local Artist: Michelle Morgan (Vista, CA)
Poem: "The Space Cadet from Indiana"
"The Space Cadet from Indiana" By Michelle Morgan
She stands in a muddy puddle of trampled dirty daisies in the springtime holding her kite of tin foil and copper wire in the middle of the night. It was raining red wine. An eloquent, almighty cascade of amaranthine, ethanol, and peroxide pouring down from the sky. Sharp tacks and nails and knick-knacks piercing the soft warm earth beneath, splashing in bloody puddles as far as you could see. It was a hell of a storm that night, my friends.
The sky screamed over and over again with lightening crashing to the ground like falling pieces of a white picket fence. The flashes would yank so hard at the wires of your eyeballs it would send sparks popping out your nose singeing your lips. You could smell the burning of the fires the sky set to the ends of her hair. It was so beautiful against the dark. Black. Night sky.
She was wrapped from head to toe in red and blue wires, batteries clanking around her waist. Arms wide open letting the sky drip down her throat, she twirled around in circles. Barefoot. Singing old songs of the Dead Kennedy's and Stiff Little Fingers. Dancing. The mauve pelted her skin, scouring and scraping until her entire body was bloody with the most alluring ruby red. She smiled at the man with her pink teeth and edges of her mouth dripping the rich, wet, chunky cruor.
With a lick of the lips she said, “How long do you think it will be before we don't need keys?” When she gets drunk she likes to talk about the future. She was tossing her kite up over and over only to have it smashed down again and again. Whip after whip after whip. Her kite was crinkled and ripped.
Pointing to the sky, she yelled, “Merry Christmas! Your a good friend!” “What are you doing Miss? That looks dangerous!” He yelled at her through the wind. “I'm making candy LIGHT!” she screamed, “Electrified Sweets!” “If your scared sir, I suggest you go back inside. What are you made of? There are termites out here, my friend. They'll eat you alive.”
Her hair fell wet over her shoulders and lips. Her toes sank into the soppy ground. You could smell the warm acidity of the dirt. You could feel the earth drunk and dizzy with bliss.
“Do you have a smoke sir?” she winked at him. “You can't smoke a cigarette in the rain, where the hell are you from? What are you doing all the way out here on the west coast at a time like this?” “Well,” she said, “I was very flat on the ground this morning when I awoke. Like a paper doll in a world of cut-outs. It was sad. All I could notice were the edges of things; I kind of crinkled a rib when I lifted my head.”
“A passing wind asked me if I would like to join him for a picnic of peaches and cheeses and such; But before I could gather my things he had already gone,” she shrugged her shoulders. “There was only a weak breeze who remained. And nobody likes to hangout with a pathetic zephyr. All the complaining and whining, “Boo-hoo, what a flippant gust he is!” But I guess that’s just the way the wind blows.”
“I tumbled along with this breeze like a dead leaf for a bit just till I got some food in my belly. Here I am. What the hell are you doing out here sir? It's raining.” Before he could reply, lightening CRASHED on her grounded kite! IGNITING THE FOIL! SPARKS POPPING!
The electricity raced up the copper wire in her hand and flushed through her fresh green apple soul; It came up and out the top of her head and ends of her fingers like bursting fire! The blood of her spirit turned red and rich as ginger; Her body now just the violet wisps of smoke twisting and drifting up and up!
Higher and higher til the shy stars wrapped around her and bathed her in their sugary delight. They danced together that stormy night and cheered, “Salute Old Friends! C’est La Vie!” Smiling, laughing, and singing. They spun around in circles till they all fell down. Down from the night sky, they sprinkled like little glowing peas. He picked a couple up off the ground and put them in his mouth. The sun came out. “Hmmm...” he said, “Candy light.”
More like this:
- A Typo of a Peculiar Type (part 3, conclusion) — Feb. 15, 2012
- The Early Daze, part 13 — July 19, 2010
- Tundra # 12 — April 4, 2010
- because SDaniels asked/The Song of Tangled Hair and Horses — Feb. 5, 2010
- Horses and Their Women — March 7, 2002