Impossible ExistenceMine is an impossible existence.Every day, I do the impossible. I get up, eat Cornflakes, go to work. I work in an office. It is quiet. I like that.I walk through the park on my way home. The birds are singing. The boys are playing football between the trees. Brown, crackling leaves are thick underfoot.When I get home, I kiss my warm, flustered wife as she hurries past me out the door. She is heading to her shift over at the hospital. She works the evening shift on Wednesdays. She does impossible things there.The kids - Annie and Michael - are playing in and out of the hall, chasing each other. The TV is on in the front room. Tom is chasing Jerry round and round the screen, much like Annie and Michael.Annie is seven and wants to be a nurse. She wants to do impossible things, like her mother. She is small and bright and blonde and has her mother's radiant smile.Michael is three. He is my impossible child. He has freckles and dimples and mousy brown hair. He is giggling
She loved AngelsShe loved angels.A girl alien to the top of the globe,She had wolf's eyes.Pale in the presence of Venice Beach people,Poor but proud,Beautiful and foreign in God's country.She walked the streets of the city,Some said a city of angels,Sweet brown angels that live in apartment buildings, play guitar, ride motorbikes.She tried to see her way through the ganja smoke,Find her way off this roof to fall asleep in his bed.She forgot to realise, in-between drinks,That she was born to rule this world. Hollywood and Pine,Muholland, Santa Ana and South Central.When the dead came out to dance,She cried tears of blood for the cameras,They applauded,"Beautiful, beautiful!"And set to work chronicling her rise,And fall.She walked the red carpet,With the only man she'd never done.In the heat of the spotlight,In a borrowed dress,She realised,He was the only man she'd ever loved.