Stopped by Cops in South Carolina Where the Billboards Shift from Jesus to Porn and Back Again, I Understand My Affliction

“Stopped by Cops in South Carolina Where the Billboards Shift from Jesus to Porn and Back Again, I Understand My Affliction
It’s as American as the F.B.I. Hoover in drag, a zealot in silk stockings, careful not to smudge his lipstick as he reads me my rights. The desire to reach the heavens gets mixed up with the pursuit of naked flesh, and the next thing I know, I’m ordering coffee and apple pie a la mode in a topless diner, next to a Bible salesman who can’t get enough of those free refills. Halleluiah! Can I get a waitress? One who was at the scene of the crime? That’s the easy part. It’s as simple as a right hand and a left. I’m guilty of human needs. And here the billboards remind me, like flashcards for a five-year-old, alternating Lust and Love. Moving too fast is what got me here, stopped on the side of the road. The cops wear mirrored shades to keep their own sins hidden. The sign I’m next to features Jesus ascending and a 1-800 number to call if I feel alone. But I’m more hungry than lonely, and once I get my ticket, I’m gone.”
~~Christopher Kennedy
ennui prophet

–source link

I read this collection immediately after posting the post about Luxuria. I liked this one and one other in particular, though most of them had something that jumped out at me. Ahhh…the mood of the day!

Thank you Mr. Kennedy!

Luxiuration and The Tea Party

Today the screaming and the howling of winter winds demands a way into the house. The wind chimes dance and sing in tinkling abandon, oblivious to the rage of the wind, unable to convert them, nor to distract them from their joy. Perfect union, not one without the other. Today warmth, the touch of soft clean sheets and gentle conforming heft of blankets round my body nestled in with cup and sip and swallow taste of glorious tea and books full of dross and treasure, married like the winds. Luxuria.

Am I Going?

Somewhere, in the middlin-end of the night, a light shadow flicked across the surface of my brain and I knew it was light moving through legs and calves and feet. Feet wearing oxford shoes, manly-type oxford shoes. Flexed a toe, to feel for new, inflexible and squeaky hard bottomed platforms. Flexed a toe to feel for the groove, a careful bend and give, familiarity, soft scuffles and the touch of the earth terrain–lumps and bumps and LIFE!

I heard rain. Gentle drips and splatters sneaking through the canopy of trees, making the slow motion crash from surface to surface slowing down until at last perching upon the perfect tip with minute point awaiting(of course)the touch of my finger that mine eyes might glorify such perfection in drop, for an hour or two minutes, whichever comes first to mind.

To lick manly fur or drop? My mouth IS dry! I neeeeeed a drink! Such treasure hunts for dew, endling-walks at night. Manly fur it is, good choice, thirst quenched. Now.

I contemplate opening one eye. I practice. Definately NOT the left one first today. Where am I going? I am going to open the right eye, just to see. And then, close it again. And be distracted by the manly scent of fur. And pine a moment for the going, and the coming back again. This moment is sublime. What does sublime mean?

Ah! Too late, I am already going down the stairs and making tea as my feet hit the floor and I sigh and I stretch. And I make the tea, and I check the mail, and I see Janet, asking me if I am going…someplace, somewhere. Janet? I am always full of ING things. I do not at this moment know how to provide a more accurate accounting. I will try to shorten it to, I am always going. How can one NOT be always going?

On Femininity–Purple Profundity: Poetry by Elisabeth Connelley

Yours
an opinion
made a pickle of
fickle women dressing for the ball
furs and jaded
the twinkling of faux gems
Auburns and sables
much sought after tresses
coveted
twisting bodies, ensnared
clothed
encircled
by wafting
her sensuous perfumes
to be hidden in
going to the play
Dramas
drawn out
melancholies, sweet agonies, what shames
are hidden in blind eyes
in yours
irrevocable decisions
once, and only remaining to be
opinions

–elisabeth connelley