Mad Dog 20/20 Blackberry Jubilee Reveals Zinfandel’s Dirty Secret

August 27, 2009 coothoots

I was bred from renegades,
bred an outlaw,
and now I abide by the code,
and swear at the very first sight
of the eighth wonder of the world -
Blackberry Heavens.

He saw it all, showed it to me -
the Mafia, FBI, one third world country,
bobcats on the prowl, treed raccoons,
flashes of the rabid,
streets ending in “th” in big cities,
like the one I drove to one day
after the night he never came home.

Blackberry bushes lay naked in their beds,
and so did I, my lover’s thigh next to mine,
his adagio of panting breath.

Instead of the normal thumps and rustles
that wake dawn to someone’s rising
the phone blasted,
before clouds flickered inky,
and his keys of air shook,
breathed flames in and out of control.

And all the while these beautiful buds spread black lace.

Night before he was intoxicated by the drink of January,
and blossom’s odor hung in careless fashion.

In a forsaken town named Zinfandel
ungodly goings on left him naked,
in a field past the hedgerow’s fare,
and prickly touches scratched his skin.

I remember driving veiled,
the outcast smile,
a million kisses he offered,
and how a tornado stilled in my arrival.

That last week on the swing
he was drinking fermented juice,
laughed, and mistook my breath for his.
I loved this funny cat in a hat with a gaze.

He now sleeps with a lady called death,
and my eyes ride margins
of newest limbs
on an unimportant morning.

Each berry now a crystal ball,
that makes me think
why couldn’t I have been clairvoyant?

This old owl rings copper under morning’s hot rim,
and softly sings Gordon Lightfoot’s Blackberry-wine.

Entry Filed under: Poetry,Writer

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