Angels Fly Out of Trailers

Sometimes the best parts of ourselves are squelched for the foolish learning of the moment . . .


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Angels Fly Out of Trailers
Angels fly out of trailers sometimes with whiskey breath,
And the white residue of crushed Vicodin in the nostrils.
We had fun I think.
Maybe it was the weed or the drink
Or the full-bellied laughs that made us forget the next day's bondage.
People told me you were slow.
People are wrong.
For when I thought you were trashed
And my fingers found the white edges of your bony thighs,
You seemed quite perky, elucidating at length on
The ancient, mind-controlling dolphin-pigeon alliance
For world dominion, and how the mummified remains of Jesus
Were guarded by Templars in a secret Vatican vault.
People say you don't work hard.
People are wrong.
For when my shot was gone,
And my wondering hands cupped the little snow cones of your tits,
You worked overtime to convince me
That Hitler was worthy of sympathy for his undescended testicle,
That Carroll was a pedophile and 'Wonderland' his sick manifesto,
That I better leave
Unless I wanted my own genitals to be munchies.