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| Sooner or Later, Part 4 of a series, cont'd |
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| But, not quite.... Accustomed to navigating by his wit and native sense of direction, Spike found that the LA freeway system in the daytime was not conducive to such "seat of the pants" reckoning. He was forced to pull into the parking lot of a Burger Hutt to rummage in the glove box for a map. Finding one, he achieved his bearings, settled on a route and resumed driving. It took more than an hour and a half for him to clear the busiest traffic areas, despite the fact that he was leaving the city. He traveled east on the Santa Monica Freeway, to the 405 and finally Highway 5 northbound. Though he was still in Los Angeles County, once the true urban jungle was in the rearview mirror, he exited and began to travel via state and county roads, seeking to avoid the majority of other motorists in favor of appreciating a bit of natural solitude. Spike's mood lightened a bit as he slipped away from the city, and opened the GT up on the increasingly rural roads. With the sun warming his hands, and the miles of road, bordered by blooming chaparral, disappearing under the humming tires, he found himself disinclined to fire up his new Dropkick Murphys CD, preferring rather to let his imagination wander. How lovely would it be to just be the average California bleach blond, tooling around without a care on a late spring day...perhaps on the way to a secluded beach -- wonder 'f there is such an animal any more in this state? No matter; maybe, instead, he was off to meet his girl for a horseback ride in those hills in the distance, at the end of which would be a picnic lunch spread in the tall grass.... He tried to recall if Buffy had ever mentioned going riding, and decided that it must never have come up ~ he tended not to forget that sort of thing when it did. He pursued the fantasy for a bit, deciding what would be in the picnic basket, that there would be the sound of gently running water somewhere nearby...and, perhaps inspired by the previous day's triumph at the poetry slam, he contemplated what he'd read to her out of a book conveniently packed amongst the victuals. It wasn't long before he was reciting aloud the remembered bits of his favorite poems of years long past: When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, Until the lengthening wins break into fire At either curved point.... Yet ere Love parted, he said to Death, 'This hour is thine: Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, So in the light of great eternity Life eminent creates the shade of death. The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall, But I shall reign for ever over all.' Spike noted, as he forced down the last swallows from his first quart of blood, that the breath necessary for his recitation was drawn with somewhat less pain than first thing that morning. Cheers for 'ccelerated healin'! He reached around to find the second tub of blood behind the seat, the motion proving that it would still be some time before he was back to 100%. His thoughts drifted back to the types of poems he'd mooned over as a young man, and was put in mind of some movie or other where it was asserted that the purpose of poetry was to woo women. True 'nuff...bloody ponces, all of us.... 'Course, Lovelace wasn't t'all dainty about what he wanted: |
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| Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years, Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe Are brackish with the salt of human tears! Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow Claspest the limits of mortality! |
| When I behold upon the night's starr'd face Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour, That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love; - then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink. Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air, Thrice sit thou mute in this enchanted chair, Then thrice three times tie up this true love's knot, And murmer soft "She will, or she will not." |
| Is it that mens frayle eyes, which gaze too bold, She may entangle in that golden snare: And being caught may craftily enfold, Theyr weaker harts, which are not wel aware? |
| And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaes of myrtle; |
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