Waiting

He proposes to women as if he were trying on shoes Looking for anything, loose, tight, sandals or docksiders; But there are no shoes in the dollar general store , There arent even any socks that come close to fitting.

He disappears and saunters back after Traveling through Europe, or climbing Mt. Kilamajaro Hes painted airplanes in Alaska, and he road crazy crowded buses through Peru while avoiding stagnation . He has watched the stars from the best perspectives earth has to offer. He has standing reservations for two on the other side of tomorrow. Home is empty except for some musical equipment, it is not Somewhere he likes to visit, complete with Cigarette burns on the carpet, though he admires a framed Poem above his computer glorifying aviation. He is his own possession, creation of genius Mixed with desperation. He Reads a book a day regardless of his state of ecstasy Or depression, he has no use for moderation. He can weave words so tightly they never leave your psyche, He is a poet of the people ; Injecting enthusiasm into those who dare to listen, He holds the power of persuasion With one minor exception regarding Romantic inclinations of commitment binding.

He radiates rainbows laced with arsenic, No mortal woman can withstand his extremes, he needs an angel queen. The bad days are spent within four walls cemented in Kansas Waiting for women to save him while Kicking the keyboards and preying on knowledge With no particular destination.

Twister of time and ladies affections, he attracts attention. He " feels" too much for polite conversation, tact is not his act. I, like the prophet yearn for the return of the messiah, knowing never to hold a date too close to heart For disappointment will surely follow. But he said he would be back in September And that begins the day after tomorrow.

If he stays away this time For longer than the promise Ill remember that there is no Need to fear change and what it brings us, But, then, he will never know the things I learned This summer while in remission of Responsibilities pending. Ill risk the penitent prickle of pessimism For the precipice of hope recreated From a whisp of his wit reinstated . Ill cushion the blow while questioning the perplexing answer he is.

Tracy 8-30-99

-- kiki (TBAUBO@HOTMAIL.COM), August 31, 1999

Answers

I too waited so long. Knowing I would never feel the touch of his heart against my breast, I waited for the pangs of memory. I compared his nature to that of an illusion, or perhaps even, a bubble, so enigmatic and apparently full of substance, when infact it is a shimmering shell of nothingness. He stole my heart with those poetic words you spoke of, always knowing with a sensitivity beyond his years, and a wisdom that enhanced time. I believe he still sits within his walls at Kansas..preying on someone to steal his conscience, take away the pain. Because his pain is is charm, the tortured soul that never knows the touch of a remiss world, he lives within his own cocoon, and slowly shows you the way. To this day I still think of him.... althought I found many who he has spun his wicked web around... and I still smile. I smile because I know... and I understand something he never will. And so do you.

-- Elke Fire Weaver (_-Elke-_@excite.com), August 08, 2000.

Thank you. I emailed a response, basically, I say, yes, you love him too. Perhaps in a different way, for it was not my breast that he neared, it was more something centered and just out of touch. I love the way he writes and hate the way he tortures himself. So strange to come back to words forgotten, it brings me back almost a year to where I stood once, looking to others for solutions. How I've changed, and he as well. I still love him, suppose I always will. In a bortherly kind of way. But it is not brotherly love that he is seeking, in my not overly humble opinion. I wish him well, as I do you.

-- Tracy of the Kiki kind (tbaubo@hotmail.com), August 08, 2000.