Day 234 – The Real Ones are in the Air

The Real Ones are in the Air

Day 234

Small Wire by Anne Sexton

My faith
is a great weight
hung on a small wire,
as doth the spider
hang her baby on a thin web,
as doth the vine,
twiggy and wooden,
hold up grapes
like eyeballs,
as many angels
dance on the head of a pin.God does not need
too much wire to keep Him there,
just a thin vein,
with blood pushing back and forth in it,
and some love.
As it has been said:
Love and a cough
cannot be concealed.
Even a small cough.
Even a small love.
So if you have only a thin wire,
God does not mind.
He will enter your hands
as easily as ten cents used to
bring forth a Coke.
We are in the midst of a winter storm and the wind is working its way up to a decent howl while my wind chimes clang like crazy – I probably should have taken them down, huh?  And this puts me in the mood for a bit of bad writing.  I gave my Facebook peeps 10 minutes to give me a list of random words.  This is what they gave me -immobile, flatulent, boobs, platypus, pomme de terre, authoritarianism, pterodactyl, refrigerator, armpit, participate, Harley, Anish na (means how are you today in, I believe, Chippewa) and blizzard.
 So without further ado:
It was a dark, stormy, cold and snowy night, the wind howled with the all of the fury of an angry pterodactyl that had just eaten 12 habaneros and chased them with a 12.5 ounce glass of unsweetened Kool-aid that had just a touch too much flavoring. Eughhhhhhhawwwwwwahhhhhhhh! And this extremely cold and awesomely snowy night, a night on the verge of a vicious, epic, white and blinding blizzard, held a gruesome scene that Harley Pomme de Terre, had seen way too many times. Yes, far TOO many times in his many years as a gum shoe, a private detective, a flatfoot, a shamus, a snoop, a peeper; he was a regular Sherlock Holmes, our Harley Pomme de Terre, and he had seen this one TOO MANY times in the 12 ¾ years that he had consulted with the Chicago PD.
Harley stared, immobile, at the horridness, the repulsiveness, the awfulness that lay in front of him and for the life of him, he could not understand, nor could he fathom, why yet another hairy armpit lay in the middle of the dark truffle display at the See’s Candy store. Why an armpit, why See’s and more importantly, why in the middle of the dark truffles – the ones with the fine drizzle of white chocolate that started in a small loop at the center of the chocolate and swirled out to drip delicately over the side, making him want to take his finger nail and just PICK at that white chocolate to get it without marring the surface of the dark chocolate – that he liked so much.
Harley sighed. Another armpit for the refrigerator, otherwise known as the Pit pit. Who could be behind this dastardly deed? And who were the poor souls missing an armpit and too ashamed to come forward? And from the looks of this particularly pileous pit, the perp had pulled pretty potently, for there was a bit of the OTHER armpit attached. Who? Who? Who???
There was only one person that Harley Pomme de Terre knew who would participate in a heinous crime such as this, someone who suffered from severe hypothermosis, trichopathophobia, bromidrosiphobia and xocolatophobia but who did not suffer from pootophobia as evidenced by the nasty scent left in the wake of this most creepy of scenes. The hellish wind had died down so all Harley needed to do was follow the funky, fetid, foul and flatulent scent trail left wafting in the air.
Harley made it as far as the East Wacker Building when the stench overcame him – he was close to his very nasty quarry…. Very close indeed.
“How you’s doing, big boy?” queried the very voluptuous Polly Platypus in her best 1940’s film noir intonation, and she looked very noir indeed with her sausage curled hair, her pencil skirt, very largish boobs barely restrained by her white cashmere sweater and the black mole that adorned her upper lip right under the wispy mustache she had forgotten to wax that morning.
“Anish na,” Harley replied in his gravelly two pack a day rasp, “I thought I’d find you here, Polly.”
She batted her eyelashes at him coquettishly, “Hey Pomme de Terre, hows about you’s and me go out to Lake Pomme de Terre and eat us a big plate of pommes de terre frites?”
Harley knew that he had to take his chance quickly if he was going to nab this femme fatale, so he did a quick spin to the left, arched around to the right, ducked once or twice then twisted his right foot out just so – Polly leaned ever so slightly to avoid his size fourteen foot encased to perfection in his Tricker’s handmade wingtip derby shoes. And as she leaned, Pomme de Terre clipped a cuff onto her dainty right wrist. She let out a shrill scream as her backside cut loose and they were both engulfed in a green miasma of odor. He remembered the old axiom about what to do in a fire and quickly decided that it would be behoove him to do the same in this stinky situation and stopped, dropped and rolled taking Platypus along with him as he deftly cuffed her other equally dainty wrist.
The roll took them to the curb where they promptly rolled off with a thump right at the door of a waiting cruiser.
“I don’t have to put up with this you sneaky authoritarianism stooges!” Polly cried out. She was quickly quieted as Bubba, the largest officer on the squad took her in a bear hold, her face buried in the wet stain that marred his armpit.
The howling banshee called The Wind, picked up once more, blowing the scent of this crime away as Harley Pomme de Terre lifted the collar of his coat and walked off into the dark, stormy, cold and snowy night, the wind howling with the all of the fury of an angry pterodactyl that had just eaten 12 habaneros and chased them with a 12.5 ounce glass of unsweetened Kool-aid that had just a touch too much flavoring. Eughhhhhhhawwwwwwahhhhhhhh!!!!