Reflect on a moment of darkness before a shift to light or perfection

What is light or perfection? My gut response is that “Moving on moments” are hard to find today. Then I wonder, is it today or is it how I live - stuck? 

I am feeling inert in the darkness that hangs above my eyes like the allergy headache of these same days overwhelmed by the incompatibilities of technology and blended family.  I feel best after a rain storm and wish for a hard rain to take away the pollen. I was recently reminded by an expert in lighting that cloud cover helps capture images better – diffused light often key to good quality images. So I close my eyes to see-k the perfection moments in my darkness.  

The only perfection I can claim is the birth of my son: but not in the moment.  Before the birth there was planning; food to prep, one of a kind announcements to design, invitations to childless pastor & neighbors and extended family to decide upon. Then amidst the timed pains of labor there was the unplanned talk of cameras and cigars; we passed both shops on the walk to the center. 

The center was downtown. No doctors just midwives. I was to be standing over a three legged birth chair. Planned was the walk, my 1st ever whirlpool bath and lots of post birth carbs. But I twist my ankle and all plans to stand were challenged and I do not stand until moments before the birth push past the wall of pain from my middle into perfection.

I once owned a perfect birth picture of neighbors holding my son moments after his birth. I had wanted to give them a birth gift as they were childless at the time - adoption in process and we had shared fertility trials & tribulations for a few years. I assumed they would be friends for life, not so, just another story with an ironic twist. This picture of neighbors holding my son minutes after his birth has an appearance of perfection. It hung among family photos in hallway of my former home. Now this picture is a memory and reminder of stolen perfection; gone like the lasagna I had so looked forwarded to post birth. There is a cigar haze over the day.

Cigar Blues

You know the ones i mean.
White patent leather shoes, matching white
belt, a polyester suit with wide stitched
pockets that cigar wrappers peek
over like fat displaced fingers.

They linger against door sills
where 24-hour coffee pours into
dawn. They came
frequently for services best rendered
by dim light. You know the ones i mean. Lean cigarillos
classic styling, a latino flavored virility
A slim itchy slough to bite off and
spit. How i wanted to - spit
at quick - no accounting
for pleasure pistols that could and
would fit just about anywhere. They came
when their women got religion or feminism,
same thing.

You know the ones i mean.
Slothfulness defined in their girth
and shirt-tailed memories long faded
as their knees of corduroy, laid bare
side by side, balls and prick, sans cigar
unsubstantiated. They came
convicted -- opportunities elsewhere
bought disease.
and picture this
a voice as high as rump round -- throngs would kneel
in delight boasting. Aromatic blackness
turkish wrapped, disguised with peacock struts
and bon bons for the must be fair damsel. He came
laden down with want me white lady.
Gladly.
and then
there are dough Johns. They tip off
at the greens and pad their expense accounts
as regular as clockwork. Just need a get away
free jump start -- pendulous without
self-flagellation.  They came
when breasts heaved with hardness
of ebbing menses below their nostrils.
But the one I will never forget left 
a Titan stench lingering with dustballs and spider webs. His glare fixed upon his desired
out come
clumped like Elmer's glue on my fingers.
Performance rated. The anti raised. Fertility swollen in petri like ash trays. Sperm samples
cultured by the hour, emulsified rubber
effacing smoke curls blue, the air
ringed with mildew.
Its a boy. Surprised?  Have a cigar!