Poem "Big Cs a Commune"


“Big C’s a Commune”

Caleb John Clark, Aug. 03.

Every wedding has an outsider,

In this case the bride’s dope provider.

Ranting between riches and jail,

Beautiful “Big C” did flail.

Dealing herself short,

Wading in money she cannot report.

Late twenties svelte,

Dark skin and a naked tan,

Expensive Gypsy dress,

(No bra and no clues of underwear,

Which provided extra brain fare.)

Hard natural messy hair,

That the other girls would not dare.

Guys flocked to this colorful female peacock,

While their gray wives,

Waddle bye byes.

On my groomsmen’s arm I escort her into the ballroom for dinner,

And I feel thinner.

At her table I bid adieu,

To tender expressions of appreciation for the escort.

I depart, amazed again at respectful chivalry’s report.

As the drink (and ?) kicks in she issues sweeping generalities with constitutional force.

Talk of drowned black fathers, magic, love, signs, kids, birds, weddings and divorce.

Big C’s delivery is half gang homeboy.

Half surfer girl boy toy.

All this is verbally wrapped around herself,

Chainword armor on an alien elf.

This goes on throughout the night, over music via loud barks,

Or in whispers on the edge of a dark golf course amid dope and cigarette sparks.

When the bouquet is thrown it goes too far and lands under a microphone.

Big C, she dives for it and carries it all night as we roam,

To my surprise I listen and do not rant along,

I’m interested, my weakness and sometimes a crumb trail to wrong.

(There was also an interesting 86-year-old grandfather in multi-colored velvet pants who looked 66 from tennis playing that he only started when he was 36, but he went to bed not long after 6.)

She’s fighting a fight I’ve been trying to let depart.

One most of the guests haven’t seen since their screaming start.

Every so often during the night she makes 4 (of the 44 we’re informed) knighting gale birdcalls.

She’s got balls.

Even when left a true gap of silence such as, “Tell me something I don’t know my soul mate Caleb.” I have no time to build the space I’d need, to find my own fight and get it right.

I’m swamped.

I’m vamped.

Perhaps if I was born a female hottie, I’d have evolved like this?

Crazy armor for the world’s bars, beaches, slums, and mansions,

Full of guys who want you and are pissed.

I see flashes of deep intelligence and wisdom,

Of brilliant writer insights,

And of management and finance protocols,

Right out of MBA halls.

But with little skill to put it in the relaxing package,

For those who of the workaday life,

A place that avoids dirty strife,

And focuses on the snapshots,

Amid endless little communication breakdowns, spats and other pastimes of those that prefer to get on with life, quality or not, depends on your lot, god bless.

Late at night she balances down the hotel hall,

On her stiletto balls,

Deftly clutching glasses of water and wine (and only letting the water fall.)

She spies the $6 water and $4 nuts on the dresser,

And leaves behind a twenty.

After lighting up some free samples of her wear,

I start to beware.

Her pain is deep.

Dark nights with no sleep.

I’m attracted to trouble,

That threatens my bubble.

And yet I cannot deny that I want to help her (me?) find peace and the path,

Between society and its wrath.

Post-wedding band she branches off further from the pack,

Irritating friends and others,

Who are winding down with their brothers.

By talking still


(Or is it just with men? Is that quiet small talk I see with a woman?)

She wants a call, she feels a connection and because I was a hippie kid on the San Francisco cross street.

It is important that we soon meet.

A weekend in Mexico at a friend’s resort?

Her boyfriend won’t mind, is her quick retort.

But I saw the communes disintegrate into confusions,

Due to drug illusions.

And while I’ve partied like a pro.

Now I usually just say no.

So I can get real things done,

And have more reality-based fun.

The cab comes.

I see her to the door.

The cabbie is young and looks her up and down slow.

“Oh shit,” she says to me “here we go.”

Fixing her hard gaze she says, “Listen up dude. Let me see the fucking meter. OK, don’t even think of starting that thing until my ass hits the seat.”

Driving home I devise how she can launder her cash,

Use college to validate her stash.

Top a place where getting drunk at weddings doesn’t bring out the fight,

Because it is spent during work, where she shines bright.

The IRS would see a student eating rice and beans,

But the IRS doesn’t know your discretionary means.

She’d live well on her cash,

She’d have parties for sport

Until she graduated and feared no court.

At parties the comments like “is she on something?” and “I had to bolt, too intense and hard to understand.” Would fade,

Replaced by a magic elf in a peaceful glade,

Dispensing wisdom and humor in pithy quips,

To children and those asking for tips.

Big C’s a commune.

Somewhere between concrete,

And perfume.

Dealing herself short,

Wading in money she cannot report.

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