Angels Without Matches and a Number For My Name (day 1088)

So undetermined angels
That hadn’t written down my name
Asked me for a light
Which I hadn’t one to share.
But you know, as they were Angels
It wasn’t smart to tell a lie.
But I had this itching habit
I couldn’t shake though I tried.

The angels looked at me strangely,
My eyes right back at them
With eyebrows quickly twitching
Like two forgotten nuns at prayer.
You could tell they weren’t impressed
By the color of my hair
For I had turned it over
Like my favorite forty five
That had recently been spinning
On my hi-fi stereo.

The one said, “Mister look here
Though we don’t look like much,
From battle we have come,
You can see we have our wings
Floating elegantly behind.”
I said: “yeh sure man, I see them there behind.
But I think that you’re confusin’
That I might be someone else,
For I’ve got some pretty faces
Expecting me to come back home.
I mean you both no harm,
You can understand my duress.
But I’m going to pay the cover
And say all my goodbyes.”

So they looked each other over
To decide just what to do.
I picked up my old envelope
With all I had to ever offer.
They handed me some matches
With a number snuck inside
One that I’ve never called
And I hope never see again.

From Without Within (day 354)

I have been watching myself crawl around these corners as of late, from the mirrors encircling this room that I lay upon
I quite enjoy the serenity of observing oneself from within the landscape of ones own charm
It’s like a close encounter with another, a feature that has never quite grown old and continues to grow
Comfort like a curve that has yet to be populated with the distinction of hair

These mirrors are not cracked at all, nor do I plan to crack them
Perhaps I grow old and shed my find cloak like the snake that glows
But I shall not tire of watching the curves of my eyebrows race their way south
Into the depths of my ear lobes and further towards my nose
I shall not grow weary of the assembly gathered upon my chest
Some of them curly, lots of them old crow
I don’t believe in alterations of the plastic kind
Those which require surgeons to enhance what doesn’t seem to exist
This is a modern folly, of which I am not victim
Perhaps it would be better I didn’t voice my opinion

I as my master do conquer what I’m made of
I listen to its lurches, I succumb to its will
I help it move forward and feed it more fuel
Today I have explored from without and within

In These Shoes (day 159)

Fueled by urban rush
Styling through leftover plush
The balanced hair left a little smear
Sexy walks and glaring looks

No, we’re happy in these shoes

Give me blood
And I’ll ask for scabs
Give me cocktails
And I’ll ask for napkins
Give me rainbows
And I’ll ask for the rain
Give me eyebrows
And I’ll ask for the lips
Give me hair
And I’ll fray it everywhere

Now we’re happy in these shoes