A baby angel had been spotted eating out of a neighbor’s trash again, preferring curbsides where trash barrels have already been knocked over by a dog or some other animal looking for scraps. Reports suggest that because of their resemblance to human babies, they may like to lick the sugary residue left by soda bottles and various juices, acting upon a need for love and nurturance that has yet to be fully realized. What can look like a heightened predisposition to diabetes can be easily mistaken for what experts are now calling the “Pantry Effect,” or what others have dubbed the “Gingerbread Man Syndrome.” Baby angels can, it is theorized, because of an absence of object awareness and a variety of unsubstantiated environmental factors, without provocation, start seeking out containers, garbage bins, recycling bins, paint buckets and the like, first, to be cocooned, and when unable to feel completed by one, eventually seek to become the container they are seeking by digesting the contents of said container, which makes them feel safe and loved. I decided to see what it was all about, so I patrolled the neighborhood hoping to catch one. It only took about 10 minutes to spot one. At first I thought it was a seagull, because of the wings. As I got closer, I noticed its head was buried deep in what looked like a fried chicken bucket, but I suppose it could have been a popcorn bucket. I got level with it. “Show me your face,” I said. Neighbors began flying out of their homes, tentatively with their cameras. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who’d been thinking about doing my own reconnaissance. I grabbed it by the ankle and gave it a little tug to help it make a decision. “Leave me alone,” it said. It swatted at my wingtip. Where did these things come from? “You don’t have to be frightened little guy,” I said. “Stop trying to steal my food,” it said. It was obviously reliving some kind of trauma. “I’m not trying to steal anything, baby angel,” I said. “I just want to know why you’re here, and who you really are.” It backed out of the Finkin’s trash barrel and flew off, disappearing over the roof of the movie theatre. I heard someone behind me. It was Mrs. Bryant. “What did you find out?” She said. “Not much. But I got a good look,” I said.
Published by Chris Russell
Hi, I'm Chris, and thank you so much reader for visiting my blog and wanting to learn a little bit about me. I know time is a hot commodity these days, more so now than ever I think, which is why it’s my hope that you make it a priority to read my poems under some low light when you have some time on your hands and can really read and reread them closely and experience something shining in them. It’s my sincerest hope that they make you want to look at yourself, your world, and poetry itself a little differently, while they also encourage you to be more kind and gentle with yourself and others. I know when I read a poem, regardless of its subject, I expect to feel asked in and touched by its speaker. Sometimes it happens. Sometimes it doesn’t. That’s the way it goes, right? It would be great though if some of these poems brushed against you. As for when I write, it’s always my intention to lift and exteriorize more understandably complex emotions and states of consciousness I’m currently experiencing, and it's usually through an analysis and highly conscious reframing of my childhood that this happens, though I’ve been known to veer into writing surreal-like absurdism and allegorical prose poetry when the wind splits me that way. Where am I on the planet? This MFA in Writing fossil with an ever expanding Dad bod now lives and works in Concord, New Hampshire where I currently divide much of my time between writing, blogging, assisting middle school students who have special needs, and navigating the journey that is my own really unimpressive, but no less valuable dark night. From my own cave in the wilderness, I’d like to say thanks again for stopping by and spending some of your invaluable time. I invite you to please put your feet up and subscribe for a while, and if you’re feeling moved by one of my poems please share it with a dear friend, preferably someone who doesn’t like poetry. View all posts by Chris Russell