The Jivin' Ladybug

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Jean Jones

Dealing with the Great Absurd

 

Like revelers in some Edgar Alan Poe story,

we go to work, attend weddings, write poems

as if the while thing is not absurd,

we may have grandfathers who died in front

of our own eyes, or mothers who died with

no reason or rationale, or fathers who died in agony,

but we act as if none of that is real,

drink like it doesn't exist, attend churches

like everyone there will live forever, or better yet,

meet in heaven somehow, when instead,

each of us will die lonely and unexpected absurd deaths

massive heart attacks, nursing homes predicting our

death in 24 hours, dying in a car crash after falling asleep

after a tour of duty in Iraq, dying in front of your daughter

and grandson, getting hit by a car, dying of AIDS in prison

because you stop taking half of your pills needed to keep you alive,

and we go on, ignoring funerals, wishing people the best,

nodding our heads when we hear people around us talking about friends

or family dying, "I'm sorry, we say," when we really don't know

what to say, after all, our friends and family are alive and well,

what can we say?  If we live long enough, we get to know

the obituary page quite well, we notice less and less, our friends around,

we keep going to churches, nodding our heads, turning on the TV,

and like Rip Van Winkle, sleep through our lives until Death awakens us

one day or night, her tremendous giant white or black wings rising up

above our heads, and that white, alabaster face with red eyes, asks

us, "How are you doing, okay?  How do you feel?  Are you ready to go?"

And we fully cooperate, there's no denying Her will, and as we turn back,

looking back at this world, we wonder, "Was it all a dream?

Did I dream myself awake?"  Perhaps you did.  Perhaps we all do,

until one day, we awaken.

 

 

 

Awakening

 

(Revised by Jean, Ron, and Howard)

 

The bull-headed

white horns

of the waxen moon

stare back at me

in your voice:

Tell me,

what leopards lay beside you?

 

What third eye

glistens in your voice?

What owls curl beside your bed?

 

The Three of Pentacles opens your Reading

and the Three of Wands crosses you. ..

The Page of Wands is your goal

or destiny

Who is he?

Is it Oscar Wilde

Is it the Angel?

"I have dreams of a rose,

and falling down

a long

flight of steps. . ."

 

In the labyrinth

we have eyes

The well

that surrounds us

glistens

and we have taken part

in all this

but nothing will satisfy this

nothing

 

Listen:

your hymen

is the door to Plato's cave

where Alice lies buried. . .

All my life I have wanted to go there

but I was afraid

afraid. . .

 

You sit next to me

a white table

and we sit, smiling, smiling,

and "yet, . . yet. . ."

you strip this flesh from my skin

your body

a set of clothes I have worn at least twice. . .

 

Afterwards,

we sit, my eye trailing the ceiling

and you, wet, glistening, and I ask myself,

"Does anything last?  Will this last?"

You reply,

"Nothing is permanent, nothing IS

All light melts inside this ocean

all light melts inside my mouth:

I want it

I want all of it

and I want you

I want you

I want you."

The Jivin' Ladybug- A Skewered Journal of the Arts
 
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