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Circular perfection
As night fell, so did we on lush grass.
Grass that was constructed with a kind of perfection.
A circular perfection.
Circular like your perfect eyes.
Your eyes like the eyes of pale faced, angry citizens standing in long lines
spotted with hope, slathered with dismay.
The lines end behind enemy lines.
Those enemies brandish weapons.
Weapons that are sharp and precise like the silver tongues of
corpulent salesmen that soil their ties with greedy saliva.
They dress in dark blue Italian suits and salmon pink ties.
Everything plush with leather interior, inviting wood grain paneling
with all the clocks set 10 minutes ahead.
Hands free headsets, items of communication that allow
us to sprawl out in the grass and climb to the highest tops of totem poles.
The kind that help you look and feel your best,
reaching your highest highs while living your lowest lows.
The kind that allow you to slither in this grass
encouraging you to bite your own tail
giving birth to circular perfection.
Ray Strickland jr. 1997
