Butterfly Story

by on May 28, 2022 :: 0 comments

So, there was this butterfly
caught in a tree,
looking so sad.
He had that abandoned look in his eyes that I recognized,
so much like my own
on those days when I nearly overcome
my addiction to hope –

And then there were all the clowns
from all the circuses
in all the world
packing themselves into suitcases
and traveling coach on Flying Fuck Airlines
and checking into Motel 6’s under assumed names
because angry elephants
were looking for their asses –

And there was a woman
sitting at the bus stop
eating tacos filled with shredded dollar bills and cilantro.
Her hair was a complication of black flames,
wicked in the wind.
She did not smile, but told herself and everyone else,
“I am happy. I am.” –

There was an old man
with the posture of a question mark
and teeth like the tombstones in an abandoned cemetery.
He held a baby doll covered in voodoo symbols
and rocked it out beside a Honolulu 7-Eleven
singing to gods and devils and pedestrians
as they passed by –

And there is a dead baby rabbit
outside my window at work.
Or at least I THINK
it was a baby rabbit.
It’s become a scattering of tiny fur tumbleweeds
caught between blades of unnatural winter grass
kept green by corporate conspiracy lawn keepers –

And no matter how hard I try to avoid thinking about it,
there is a demon twitching in my pocket.
It’s moldy adhesive skin sticks
to the inner lining like an unwanted memory –

And grackles assemble
on every rooftop and power line,
ominous, contemplating a riot,
or a rock concert,
or a bloodless coup,
or a peaceful protest,
or a goddamn muthafuckin tupperware party –

And I see you there, reflecting,
considering the mystifying contents
of abandoned suitcases of insane asylum patients.
Harold’s suitcase contained nothing but brushes and spoons,
all of various sizes and shapes,
and the Bible in French.
Harold could not speak a word of French,
but scribbled hieroglyphics on pages and pages,
and circled passages of scripture –

And all the colors are fucking each other
in the sunlight,
right out in the open where everyone can see –

And that demon twitches in my pocket –

And the tumbleweeds are hopping –

And I see YOU
lit up like a neon cocktail sign,
twitching –

And my attorney has advised me
that I should jump in the hotel pool at 2am
with a dude who looks like a
young Filippino Hunter S. Thompson –

And you all look so pretty.
You all look so pretty.
It gives me hope…

I have wandered in circles –
I am lost and found –
found guilty –
found negligent –
found incompetent –
unfounded accusations, assumptions and worries –
I have wandered and wondered –

And it is still there –
that tree –
choking on a sad butterfly.

– Victory

editors note:

A poem with no concern for the butterfly effect. – mh clay

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