Truck Stop Angels (an adaptation)

- Trust here that the prelude belongs to an entirely different individual; he spoke in unpublished and un-hushed tones about a breed of femininity that was exuberated by modernity of women in service settings. Unfortunately his callous thesis (drummed up while his lover was in a brief stay at a mental hospital) lacked the attempted feminist tone, and suffered us only his mild interpretation at being a lusty object with a frown and soiled apron. -

When you spoke of Goddesses in pale sodium light,
Angelic wings under tunics,
Under heavy laminated name badges,
That read something like “I can help”,
And “my name is Suzie”

When you illuminated us to truck stop venues,
That quench a myriad of hospitable deity,
Bent over slices of cherry pie,
Examining each side of the toast,
Doling out the little jellies so everyone can get something besides grape.

When you dared us to look under the epaulets,
And beneath the loose aprons,
To sober fledgling Angels,
To make viable and persuasive homage,
To they that still labor with unknown names of sainthood.

To those hearts that flitter,
When some half emptied sugar bowl is lifted,
Is elevated in the procession of cleaning,
And found beneath,
Is a crumpled five?

They too elevated,
Ambient beings, merely halo’s to the meal less eye,
Read about only in waterproofed menu’s,
Beneath items like grits and corned beef,
And mentioned in every jukebox love song.

You like to imagine,
Each young and whimsy fed mind,
Alert to your scribant ways,
Wondering with open mouths or braces exposed,
Will it be their big break into formal canonization?

The miracles performed are as follows;
Not spilling even a scalding drop upon you,
Carrying those large trays,
Piled with your filthy dishes,
Even higher than her eyes.

Angels that sweat slyly under casual starch,
That sneak cigarette break out the back door,
They thumb sexy novels before shift,
They gather and laugh at the leering men,
Even the ones that scribble away at their note pads.

Should god shed them no mercy,
For they are the milk of his breast,
As you look at the slim hip,
Of some nubile barista,
Plying you with dark black eyes and creamer.

And they work too in harshly lit shopping centers,
And fortunate back road 7-11’s,
That greet you with gasoline and grins,
And thrumming fluorescents,
And ripe biblical fodder draped femininely across the countertop.

- A footnote is relevant here for the purpose of clarifying motive in the multi part deconstruction of feminine objectification amongst service positions. There is no underlying PR concern in the blood, bear that in mind; just a hearty dissatisfaction with sycophantic gender praise that underlies a prior authors disabilities at coping with an apathetic wife to be. -

· References (angels under fluorescent lights) by Josh
· See Also (A Radical Defense by Josh) by Josh
· See Also (A Reassurance to Josh) By Johny

Fingers

(A small sweet poem about love/drugs)

Sleepily I ask you,
With a hand in front of my face,
Digits rigid in extension,
How many fingers; my dear…

You squint through lamp shade light,
Turn your head upon its side,
Let your palm rub your lids,
Grope in tender phosphorescence.

I lay across the cool bare wall,
The bed rickets as we play,
I hide my hands from you,
When you jump at them in the dark.

How many you say,
Head across my lap in resignation,
How many pink fingers, you ask,
In the shade of salmon light.

Enough, I say,
Blood still settled eerily in my ears,
Such that it gives and audible pulse,
Like valves sealing and popping free.

You have little pills,
On your chest and across the linen,
Baby blue vest buttons,
Tumbled from amber jars.

No quantity of ironic kisses,
Can repair the moments,
Spent kicking the air,
Because it was merely too hot and constrictive.

My eyes are red too,
You look fierce,
Like the mother in labor,
Like the virgin on the stake.

It’s a small climb out of bed,
Your limp arms over shoulder,
Your stomach churns like a turbine,
Borborygmus.

Walk with me,
I plead to deaf eyes,
Your steps clop indolently,
Hair being inhaled and wet.

A cluster of small sudden gasps,
The bitterness of you bile,
I hold your brown hair,
I rub the small of your convulsing back.

Two you say,
From a relieved mouth,
As though you are regaining spirit,
Almost immediate.

I shoot a glance,
It’s intended to look puzzled,
And you, motioning to your rasping throat,
Two… pink… fingers…

as it stands

As it stands, you were but a stain in the twilight. I will recall that tune on the radio, it’s an older mix, and you explained that you lost your virginity to the very same recorded track. Sounds as though the melody itself took a hold of your young thighs, bent upon penetration, but yeah it was only a backdrop of sound upon your complacent coos and sighs. It is a set of concussive beats that will live forever in conjugal infamy; and you even wore the shirt too. What garment you say; the same that was flayed from you in the heat of the moment; was rent from your pert breasts in the moment he took hold of you and planted this tumbling seed. I like to recall.

Our sex was never sacred, all too often just a breaking of the dam. Perhaps like prison sex, other options worn out, not as desperate as consumed. We ate of each other; took our own bodies as communion, liquid blessings. The wine was of grapes pressed with toes, or was it spermicide, ovumcide, bleeding foils of coiled latex. The crucifix, however, atonement with an unequally armed cross made by your legs skyward. Never ashamed; staring into pillows at the humble mercy of the other; driven out of our minds and thus our dedicated organs. Yet love was the word afterward, when we tumble to our respective corners and litigate.

I know the precise fashion of scent that evaporates from your legs when I buffer them in cucumber and avocado lotion. It mingles with the oils of your skin and creates a specific pheromone. I sometimes recall you on my sweat, is that alchemy a feasible consequence of our mingled blood. With a start I sense you close, but it’s just my body remembering.

If you are alive, would you read this and frown? Would you accuse me of pretension because I have memories. Would I be victimizing you because I accuse you somehow of not caring. It’s not you I’m after. I resent the love affair with love. I resent you for conniving me with a dirty word. I detest your taste of promises. Just what could you deliver? A moist preoccupation?

I’m angry that even with the rancid medicine (your lust) this state of existential loss is incurable. The world is dying; we are dying, and all we can manage is to shut our eyes tightly and press to one another’s perspiring bodies. I sense a monster in our ranks, the monster has a name and a blistered grinning face, but it looks too much like the rest of us to discern from the crowd. Remember, we are dying, the word is dying, we are dying.