ARIELA MARIN

LEROY

 

With your fist in us

I lay doused in dust.

Your image famed, printed

and pressed

onto a cotton shirt, wraps

around the back

of my neck

the way a sweaty towel

rests heavy

on a boxer's shoulders

of mighty, fine contentious boulders.

 

Neither here, nor there

betwixt and between

you plead just to be seen...

 

Dear Leroy,

you paved a road

and paved it for 

gaping eyes of consenting souls;

the angels who have fallen,

the angels afraid to sing,

the angels who lie broken 

amidst a gang of sirens

that hold captive a coveted wing.

 

Dear Leroy,

I call to you now

for they've waited to resound

'til I fled their city of Lost Angels

and it's not 'til of late that I hark

a beautiful choir 

behind those mountains,

those shoulders

of mighty, fine contentious boulders…

 

Those mountains

of mighty, fine complex creation.

Those mountains

of my beating heart…

My beating heart…

The rhythm of

a beat-less salvation.

 

Sir Leroy,

to whom do I speak?

I'm embarrassed to plead

to a Legend who exploits

an infamous myth

of Doctor Faustus.

 

Dare I ask of the devil himself? -

to please leave

them Hearts of Gold to beat

to a rhythm which falls dead

to ears of effigies,

eyes of serpents,

to the nose of a needy canine

and luscious mouths of sirens.

 

The last fair deal's gone down, 

you say, the last fair deal's gone away...

 

Well not down that road

which winds and binds

and spirals solely...

 

Leading

in no other direction but

right back to you,

dear ol' Leroy.

 

Right back your way.