[Poet Glas]


Why does this angel
Bother me so? The words of advice
And consolation are vague,
Like the words of a forgotten prophet,
Ancient patriarch of bears.
No, I need clearer direction,
A devil's tempting; clear, concise,
As detailed as a lawyer's menu.

We have fallen, our emotions
A Tower of Babel fit to separate
Each of us from the whole.
By the sweat of our brow we toil
To erase mortality from our minds -
deodorant, toothpaste, and makeup are
The sanctified ointments of our age.

Methuselah lived nine hundred years;
So will our commercials.
And through it all the sound
Of laughter and gentle words,
As my ancient gnostic angel
Seeks to guide me
Where he cannot tread.

Why does this angel bother? I care not
For him or his ilk, fierce of face
And ubiquitous as the road-side crows.
With his bristly muzzle and sharp teeth
He is fearsome enough for the task.
Trickster-angel, wrapped in fur
As we are clothed in flesh.

The first people were beasts,
Walking on two legs, then on four.
Angels begot children, then the flood.
Noah's ark held them not, yet
Still a few first-ones remain:
Huan, Tuan, Coyote, Crow -
The fox-folk range far into the night.

Now why does this angel still whisper?
His breath smells of chicken and pies
Stolen fresh from the yard and sill.
Perhaps he will fall
And bother me no more...
I will take my solace in cathedral
And silent, kneeling parishioners.

What? What? What does he want
Beyond a cheap smoke and a similar date -
He who helped Logos speak the world,
Drawn low to earthly appetites.
Better a demon,
A Faustian Mephistopheles,
Than a second-rate angel with paws.

The dusk comes. He speaks my name,
We shed our skins
And race away.
Chasing the unchaseable,
My angel and I
Flee from this place
To an ancient sun.

copyright 5 July 2000
by Earle B. 'Glas' Durboraw; Birmingham.


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