when angels take wings - a cover

by Alexander Alan Kaiser

the lump in my throat won't go away 

so i just whisper 

the name upon the stone 
that marks the fresh turned georgia clay 

like a flower on a hill 

she bloomed in beauty for a season 

the fragrance of her life 

like sweet perfume lingers on 

when angels take wings 

and fly away 

makes you lonely makes you blue 

makes you want to fly away too 

i know my babe 

is in heaven with jesus 

children sing 

children play 

life goes on it'll be ok 

still nothing i do feels right today 

when angels take wings 

she was my sweetheart

since we met in junior high school 

kept my promise to her daddy 

i'd respect his little girl 

like a sun that sets 

goes out of sight 

leaves a red glow hanging up against the night 

how to say goodbye 

to one you planned to love forever 

she was the one to paint a rainbow after the storm 

her love was the fire that kept me warm 

she was like heaven on earth in my heart in my home 

who would have thought 

she'd fly away so soon 

from here to there, like me to her

some days your 26 years 
fit within a metaphor, 
most nights a rainstorm is a rainstorm 

it is mid august in El Salvador and, 
no matter how much you grow to love 
and respect the rain
it will fuck you;
at a time when you just didn’t need it to; 
and 70 km away from home, 
with no cover to park your bike under,
you wonder, why did i even attempt this?
because to love 
isn’t brave,
it’s foolish;
wanting good for someone else 
more than you want yourself
runs against 
the very skin 
i am wearing,
and i know so 
because every time i feel it,
i wonder, why would she ever do that for me?

and little by little 
here to there 
seems less like 
something to work out or endure 
and more like 
everything i’m moving toward;
and so another meter homeward,
into the lightning that is dancing through the storm clouds 
like promised rain and self doubt,
and 
wearing all of it,
like wetness and distance,
i tie wishes to the red kites that are her affections, 
and fly moonlight into dark skies,
like candle flames; 
the wind is an old friend  
and he holds them in view,  
like promises
and all i ever needed to come find you; 

some days your life fits inside a metaphor, 
tonight, i ran into a rainstorm; 
either or, 
i wouldn’t change a thing from here to there.  

for brother

for the first time in 80 minutes
i was conscious of the refrigerator’s humming, 
of the beetles wings clicking, 
and the rain, 
falling more like loose rocks and pin drops
a thousand cracks, 
a thousand crashing reminders, 
to listen before speaking;
to substitute my commentary 
for brother i believe you 
brother i can see you, 
brighter than two million 
glowing kitchen windows 
passed on my walk home, 
when i promised that tomorrow 
i’d be less of myself, 
i guess we talked before morning, 
damnit,
can i swallow all that vomit, 
and move trigger fingers from my throat
to the guns that fire love songs? 

so i drew a deep breathe
and held it long enough to smother 
the demons running rampant in my gut,
brother hear me:
you are not for sale, 
even though my (love-for-self) is rich as hell.

(if souls are museums,
walled with unfinished sketches and portraits,
or manuscripts of unpublished stories,
i’ll spend all my sincerety’s fortune
searching for the only ticket to your opening day,
or a swallowable printing press.

we never felt like finished products
more like rough drafts 
works in progress
scratched through with red pens and edits
like elementary school teachers' reminders to indent; 
as if our reality's majority 
was lived within the typos and the x’ed outs).

we are simply hearts of fireball hopes 
throbbing inside of barbed wire chests; 
but i saw fence posts in the truck
and we both know empty fields to be therapeutic; 
to meet half way, 
to let our wildest - unfinished - touched up - ever changing -
missing color - missing words - dreams
collide beneath a florida sky,
and be what they are, 
'called by their right name;'
tonight, 
we’ll build new cages for aged fears 
and promise to let them starve to death, 
we never wanted to be shepherds of our own nightmares;
and if we start now
we can make it to the i'm sorries;
and still get to work by morning;  
tomorrow, 
we keep building.

brother, 
i don’t have all the answers, 
so only ask me if i love you, 
because i do know that one.

Vrsar

i was not born a magician,
but i can skip stones,
so in a way
these hands and wrists are more enchanting than you think.

the sea and pebbled shore
crack and click beneath my shoes like smooth marbles. 
i walk the arches of the Croatian coastline
with purely my backpack and a heavy mind, 
the rounded peninsula near Vrsar 
expanding from my vision 
and aiming at the pair of islands on the horizon
like a wand 

i do not know any spells, 
so i collect a pocketful of flat stones
and let them gallop with my regrets
into the darker shades of deep, 
hoping their ripples will carry my apology 
back into rocks 
where you sit to let the shallow tide-pools and sunset 
bath your feet

the layer of clouds float and observe overhead, 
spraying mists of moisture 
and bullets of sunshine,
like machine gun fire, 
into my bare arms and chest 
as i undress
and prepare to launch my own body against the surface,
vanishing into the water
like a white dove

i was not born a magician 
but i can feel forgiveness, 
so in a way 
i do get to reappear after all.

april 19

if i had a say in how the world spun today 
i’d power centripetal force to make the one hundred euros 
come, to the nigerian prostitute leaning outside my residence, 
from anywhere other than the penis of some traveling business man with a blue jacket. 

i never know what to speak other than hello as i pass, 
but she called out to me as i continued down the road 
so i turned and said, you just have to trust that this is all going to get better some day, 
and she simply answered, “i hope so.”