Monday, April 03, 2006

The Adventures of Kudos the Poet - Part IV

When Kudos hoisted me upon his shoulders, I became the fireworks I never forgave. Picnic music swarmed a malted radio. Balloons played plantains with flags. A mattress saleswoman closed shop. With each gaze that the stars cared to throw, a teardrop slipped across the face of a man, arc upon arc, his face upon the grass.

"Comprehend," Kudos proposed, "that everyone you have ever loved could be tender back to you. That you could share with them everything. Everything." Kudos set me back down on the roof and looked away. "No one is like that, you see."

On the state fairgrounds, you can be seven years old, and no one will blame you for it. You can have hot dogs and popcorn. You can have baseball. You can have parents. No one will blame you for it.

In three hours, the first rooster of a week that can begin on any day will crow. Five dozen average fortune cookies will burst open in fury, and their slips will scatter over the welcome mat of Wei-Wei’s bed-and-breakfast. A ticker-tape parade. Kudos wanted to know why I left the carnival that night and whether I would leave the rooftop.

"Yes," I replied. "I have learned to leave. Everyone I have ever loved, I have learned to leave." With that assertion, I opened a jar of fortune cookies to release two robins. Darling and confused, they reached the cherry tree unharmed. They fell in love with each other, and it was entirely believable.


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