chasing white light

I woke up. It was 3 a.m. I was thirsty. I could not remember my name. Young girls’ voices, kids bolted out from a sacred sleep-over, God’s name for pajama party, jangled the downstairs door. Tricksters, voices fading, laughing, off down the road, sounds carried back on a summer’s cool morning breeze, perhaps on my own angels’ wings. How can I be here, cherishing cold cranberry juice, and out there, chasing lost-and-found voices. Laughing with the girls, me so young again, chasing marriage. I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid. Maybe it’s all fairy dust, I’m in bed sleeping, or simply another psychotic event. But, who needs to know, when the hotline’s on speed-dial?

Somewhere out past my angels. Out beyond the giggling girls. Hopped over every roadblock, I hear the Velvet Underground’s “White Light.” Which is good, neighbors with taste, round-the-clock romance, shining their little light while my bulb’s glowing in-and-out in my brain. Like the hamburger place. Nothing so poetic as a crazy diamond. More “Suit up and show up, kid.”

Why I’m here on a Monday morning. Still here. Chasing some of it.