Journal 63 - Hope, Tchaikovsky and Tears

I want to dance outside in the sprinkler, dance in
the sprinkler in July laughing with my neighbors
playing with my children to the distant reggae
tune of Marley over noises in the scentful summer
afternoon. But it's hard to see the bee dance its own
little food tune. The bee is there don't you see it
don't you see the black and yellow pin-striped food
dancing jig fool; don't you see it there on the stem on
the blade on the yellow water laced flower dancing in
its wild honey mood; don't you see it; don't you see
it dance fucking dancing? No I don't see that. I see
my son and the notes of his laughter erupt from
between his teeth like a playful arpeggio of Mozart
or Schubert, to which the yellow black pin striped
bee dances like a ballerina on the night - I see the
bee I see the bee and its concomitant dance with the
yellow-jacket and the 2 year old; I see the sprigs of
light clamor for sight and sound, bounding like love
notes from a gong in the midst of an apathetic symphony -
subtle and desperate in their struggling dance to be
seen for the beautiful buoys of independent hope they
call from. Hope is tortured and Hope is laughter; Hope is
broken and Hope repairs broken smiles in mid-life crises.
Hope is Tchaikovsky in the 6th and the D major. I see
the dragon fly bat light with its phosphorescent wings
in splayed remnants of color like the first time Newton
spied light fractured in his prism; I see the purple and
orange and blue flutter around in animated free-for-alls
crying out to the drab colored rat, the blah hoary rat
scurrying under the house in fear of being out of key
with the fly and the bee. I'm with the whory rat
under the house with skeletons and broken busts staring
with white darting eyes through the poisonous grate
like a prisoner in a foreign land. I do see the bee
dancing I see the yellow honey bee dance fucking
dancing with the arpeggio laughter of the girl and
the boy; I see the mother try to shield herself from
the joy of the sprinkler spraying cool water in July.
I see it. I see the bee and I see the child.
And I cry.


6.3.09