Strange Wings of Impossible Butterflies by Dusty Santamaria

It’s embarrassingly difficult to surrender
A Friday night to solitude and books of poetry
At my desk next to a moaning heater in mid-December.
My opposing inclination is to reach for the telephone
And call a woman that might possibly allow me to hide
From myself in the dark safety between her legs.
Such is the weakness of males, right?
“Why do you need so much attention?”
An old poet asked me once ….
I want the secret galleries of the soul to reopen
With conversation in the city and admit me.
I’m waiting for a fly ball I know I can’t catch.
The secret to living in the twenty first century is….
Hunting with my fingertips for a gospel on the piano
I know the blessings and grace I’ve been given.
Every person I see is a cracked carnival mirror of consciousness.
Spinning around in the dazzling light show of counter actuality.
My father was born at the Beginning of the Second World War,
He saw life was holding a concealed knife behind its back.
And noticed importance only with the stabs it gave.
A lifetime of savings in the wrong currency.
I’m disappearing among the Handshakes of potential allies.
Identifying strange wings of impossible butterflies.
Hunting with my fingertips for a gospel on the piano.
The secret to living in the twenty first century is…

Dusty Santamaria

Journal entry, Portland Or.

Dec. 15th 2015