I sit on my patio roof, trying to read
poetry, and what do I hear but the echoing of words by the devil, after a
moment he’s silent, I resume my waiting (no
need to ask what he’s saying it’s always nonsense; more of the same…).
More of his current—his air flow of gobbledygook descends over my
shoulder, some settling down upon my ears, knuckles. “Where is he?” I ask
myself—“Leave me be” I demand but like a giant moth he leans his
antenna-like-tentacles over one of those building roof tops over looking my patio—his
gossip, propaganda again reaches me,
touches my skin—the skin feels each touch long afterwards.
To fight him one must be, serrated, and have battlements “Oh, oh, how
many visitors do we have today,” I whisper, looking about building to building.
They all have masks on.
“All right,” I say out loud, and I hear a laugh from the building
kitty-corner from my house, it’s him I’m sure, with his furious exaltation, and
raging triumph, perhaps masquerading in one of those bricklayers, laying bricks.
#3876 (4-24-2013)
