Outcasted kid with purple hair
Albeit not the kind of violet
That made your nostrils drip
With a watery ambrosia
Sugary enough to belong to a bee
And not the kind of
heavy, royal, omnipresent
contentment plum presents as a
molten lava
perfecting the pockmarks in the pie
My tendrils were not reminiscent of
home or
anything savoury so
I tangled them in tiaras
belonging to some Duchess' daughter or
one of Henry's wives or
Maybe twined them round
Frita's pallet and
Dyed my scalp a more pleasing hue or
Anything other than purple
Because purple was what I was not
Purple was Lilacs and
Pansies and Heliotropes and Tulips and
Lavender and
That little wild flower aforementioned
whose name I can't bare say
for the sake of
a humble beauty
such as hers
'twould be a shame to make comparable
To the wet-dog-fur look
Of my purple hair
And so I learned to get lost
In a past I always felt my own
Traveling continents and
Floating through eons
While my classmates coloured in
British Columbia and
Where is Nunavut again?
Growing, I gained companions
A faery,
Athena,
Aslan and
Frodo, Einstein, Plato,
Theodore Geisel, Mahatma Ghandi
and Louis Leakey, Jamal Dewar,
Joan of Arc and John Lennon and
it all became
more complicated
Because my world was in flux
Oh it ebbed and it flowed and it expanded
Like the molten plum but this time
It really was more like lava
Assuredly you'll understand;
See the seams in our stitching!
Our Worlds are sewn together!
And as much as we would like
to cling to our
individualism
at some point we all must
accept that there is
but one
Intrinsic as our innards
Are our atoms and
Electrons and
mine are yours and
yours are hers and
ours together are all of the stars and
it really is
beautiful
At some point the twisting shroud
The squeezing and contracting -
of the world inside my head and
the world inside my eyes and
the world I was walking around in
and the world that I saw above me -
it tensed then halted
and became very dense
then melted
What a glorious
Ubiquitous, secure and everlasting amalgamation!
I opened my eyes
To find Van Goghs Scissors
All bloodied still and so
I cleaved my purple hair
But to find Hieronymus' oils and
watercolours so
I made my skin a hellish canvas
Painted all in yellows and blues
Without a hint of purple
Now from shoulders to forearm to wrist
from breast to navel to hip
from thigh to calf to foot
legible as anything are
lines that lilt and gleam
sighing songs of
devils and cherubs alike
and of sparrows and snakes
So after heaven is hell
and after hell is Nirvana
And Manna is as good as dirt
if Ambrosia is but
the spit of a bee
It all always works out
Because at the end comes
Death and after that
We don't know
But I do know that
I don't know
Much at all to begin with
Except for four things, almost assuredly:
1. Energy is all
2. I will never cease to find shouting at people from my bedroom or a car window amusing
3. My mother loves me more than anyone
4. Nothing is certain, except for uncertainty