10-05-2014, 05:14 AM
I've posted versions of this one before... twice. I'm never happy with it. Here's another take.
edit:
She’s a shadow made of moss and brown,
feet horned and dusty. Her sandals slip
on and off.
She ambles with that monkey gait
through carts of egg vendors,
boys screaming at their goalies,
and the local station de police.
Her chatters and mumbles don’t stop,
going from spider to howler in an instant.
The first time she looked drunk-stoned,
I thought maybe she’s another glue sniffer
or counts among the illicit alcoholics
of this dry and thirsty country.
I saw a man offer her bread at the hanout today.
She didn't seem to understand;
maybe her stomach was sated.
She must have been educated
before the psychosis set in;
her French, spat out with saliva darts,
is better than mine.
I've often wondered if she has anyone,
a sister, uncle, social worker. Him?
But that's just my Western brain,
I think. Because then I remember her wiry hair
tied up with that kind of plastic rope
they string dried figs onto.
She shifts it back onto rough chopped gray
from its flower power place.
There's never a fly too far off.
She is as scenery in this place,
another piece of Oulfa’s puzzle,
and I’m the only one the least bit phased
by her accusing stares.
A shadow moves of moss and brown,
feet horned and dusty, her sandals slip
on and off.
She ambles with that monkey gait
through carts of egg vendors,
boys screaming at their goalies,
and the local station de police.
Her chatters and mumbles don’t stop,
going from spider to howler in an instant.
The first time she looked drunk-stoned,
I thought maybe she was another glue sniffer
or counted among the illicit alcoholics
of this hot, dry country.
She must have been educated
before the psychosis set in;
her French, spat out with saliva darts,
is better than mine.
I saw a man offer her bread at the hanout today.
She didn't seem to understand;
maybe her stomach was sated.
I've often wondered if she has anyone,
a sister, uncle, social worker. Him?
But that's just my Western brain,
I think. Because then I remember her wiry hair
tied up with that kind of plastic rope
they string dried figs onto.
She shifts it back onto rough chopped gray
from its flower power place.
There's never a fly too far off.
She is as scenery in this place,
another piece of Oulfa’s puzzle,
and I’m the only one the least bit phased
by her accusing stares.
edit:
She’s a shadow made of moss and brown,
feet horned and dusty. Her sandals slip
on and off.
She ambles with that monkey gait
through carts of egg vendors,
boys screaming at their goalies,
and the local station de police.
Her chatters and mumbles don’t stop,
going from spider to howler in an instant.
The first time she looked drunk-stoned,
I thought maybe she’s another glue sniffer
or counts among the illicit alcoholics
of this dry and thirsty country.
I saw a man offer her bread at the hanout today.
She didn't seem to understand;
maybe her stomach was sated.
She must have been educated
before the psychosis set in;
her French, spat out with saliva darts,
is better than mine.
I've often wondered if she has anyone,
a sister, uncle, social worker. Him?
But that's just my Western brain,
I think. Because then I remember her wiry hair
tied up with that kind of plastic rope
they string dried figs onto.
She shifts it back onto rough chopped gray
from its flower power place.
There's never a fly too far off.
She is as scenery in this place,
another piece of Oulfa’s puzzle,
and I’m the only one the least bit phased
by her accusing stares.
A shadow moves of moss and brown,
feet horned and dusty, her sandals slip
on and off.
She ambles with that monkey gait
through carts of egg vendors,
boys screaming at their goalies,
and the local station de police.
Her chatters and mumbles don’t stop,
going from spider to howler in an instant.
The first time she looked drunk-stoned,
I thought maybe she was another glue sniffer
or counted among the illicit alcoholics
of this hot, dry country.
She must have been educated
before the psychosis set in;
her French, spat out with saliva darts,
is better than mine.
I saw a man offer her bread at the hanout today.
She didn't seem to understand;
maybe her stomach was sated.
I've often wondered if she has anyone,
a sister, uncle, social worker. Him?
But that's just my Western brain,
I think. Because then I remember her wiry hair
tied up with that kind of plastic rope
they string dried figs onto.
She shifts it back onto rough chopped gray
from its flower power place.
There's never a fly too far off.
She is as scenery in this place,
another piece of Oulfa’s puzzle,
and I’m the only one the least bit phased
by her accusing stares.
_______________________________________
The howling beast is back.
The howling beast is back.
