I remember a horrid infant: the creation of rabid men, a concoction of desires, ideas and secret process devoid of conscience. They thought the riddle was solved: The forfeiture of a fraction for the good of the whole. But the whole was demeaned; the part was not consumable and refused to lie in silence as mere charred bone.
My Shadow knows or does he? He does not always mimic me; his job supposedly. I notice, at times he hides out of the light. What's he doing there; giggling, dozing or plotting an insurrection? At other times, walking with me, his movements go errant. A test? More likely, he's making fun of me! Look at him! A slight hunched over, a tiny stagger in his mimicking steps! He's playing Elderly! He's not funny!
When the first thing she said was,
They have stolen my brush and comb!
I knew our conversation was doomed.
Take some of my money and buy me
a brush and comb! Bring them to me!
Tell a nurse. She’ll find them, I advise,
still smiling passed suppressed dread.
They won’t! She retorted without doubt.
Let me talk to a nurse; they will help you.
No! Nurse! Nurse! Hang up this phone!
That was my first rejection by mom
in seventy-odd remembered years.
We have fought but never forsaken,
never slammed doors or walked away.
It stung; another prick in a sad day.
You can’t reason with schizophrenia.
Lord knows, I use to try and always
suffered defeat; not defeat, suffered
nasty instances of realization, knowing
that I, too, was one of her Satanic Liars!
Was I too fast to dismiss her claim?
Perhaps, I’m the one without knowing.
I’ve worn my twenty year old Corona
cap for three days, even in the house!
I need to wash, brush and comb my hair.
Goldfinch ravishing the sunflowers! Too much yellow!
Too loud; his song demanding…screeching: Me! Me!
Entertaining, but not subtle enough for beauty? Maybe.
Though there are truths he does parade; offering for a fee.
Can beauty only be the delicate; truth only glaring?
“The truth is ugly!” “You can’t handle the truth!”
A curve of flesh, real, depicted or imagined can still
Elicit bliss; the intuited joy of the incorruptible line.
Gastrocnemius, Soleus, Iliotbial, Peroneus enfolded;
The legs perfection of muscle, tendon, bone and skin.
Middle-aged crisis guy entranced by a woman’s legs;
Her elongated neck’s porcelain skin, shiver releasing.
Does need dictate the beauty we see…becoming our truths?
Truth might be beauty; perceived beauty our only truths.
Why search purposefully fabricated, lying walls,
That trashy sweet gum, this August depletion;
Listening for the….A…purveyor of truth?
Again, I enact this sweet, silencing ritual
With little nuance; certainly with no perfection.
With paper…neatly creased, and pen gently held
I smile, waiting for Muse to tweak the light.
Muse is our deliverance…or…our false prophet;
Which? “Ignorance is bliss.” Just give me light!
Perhaps, I am too quick to call it Greed:
this yearning for an accumulation,
this lust of Mine! self-gratification,
a trophy case crammed with coin,
heads (metaphorical and otherwise),
ivory trinkets carved of banned tusk,
Likes, notches on the bedpost
(that shows my age!) Firepower!
The rich give, but not without accolades,
plaques for display and….receipts.
Nature demands self-interest
if we are to survive, but studies show:
the poor give more than the rich;
percentage wise, of course!
(that could be Fake News)
One thing to me, another thing to you.
What of a heart soothed by Riches lure
more than thanks of those in need?
Perhaps, I am too quick to call it greed;
one thing to me, another thing to you.
The leaves are gone. Wind rejoices in Their leaving for their dance betrays; Painting hints of body on his shame. Shoulders cringe under iced breath ravaging this frigid, emptying street. Chimes to the right sing winds intent, To flee this memory, falling behind, To allow us to lie in a contrived bliss Like those wreaths on those graves.
The leaves are gone. Wind rejoiced in their leaving for their dance betrayed: painting hints of body on his shame. A witness of this carnage, he whirled in helplessness, sharing horrid chaos with us despite our hands over our ears. Shoulders cringe beneath iced-breath ravaging this frigid, manicured yard. Chimes to the right sing winds intent to flee this memory, fall far away, to lie in a contrived complacency like these plastic wreaths on these graves.
Gaia reveals the truth, at times,
Not subtly, but rocking….tumbling
What we deem rock and tumble proof.
That flora in that window box,
So bright and white and red; erect
Despite this freeze? Distance deceives
Our naive hearts and eyes effortlessly.
Scent would have squealed; revealed the fib.
Too high the price a sniff demands?
We “hem and haw” and she larks.
Our claims of dominion, our crow,
As meaningless as plastic blooms.
I recall the bucket of coopered staves to lower,
splash and feeling the weight filling. Soft rope,
braided and frayed winding round a slicked-log
spindle cranked by hand up through a squeaking
pulley would bring the bucket of water up to us.
I claimed first sip from the tarnished tin dipper
made cold to my lips by the wells sweet water.
•
If I caught him in a good mood, Old-man Carter
would sigh, lean his cane and lift me up to stare
down into the cool, unquiet, enticing darkness;
his private black hole protected by lid and shed.
Tall, taciturn and humorless, I though, he told me,
“A woman hides in the well and sings to me.”
“You drink the water?” I asked. “I do.” he bragged.
•
Even at five, I knew people told lies or as
Mama called them: stories. You’re telling me
a story! she would allege puckering her brow.
A thousand siren songs pulled me from the well;
decades falling away before I knew her name;
the woman beneath the water down the well
who sings to sooth and protect her only child.
•
A goddess, yet still, only a frail creature hiding
from those that would disfigure, abuse, and
malign her for the songs of truth she sings;
holding Virtue, sweet child, tight to her, she
watches for descending light, a face above,
an ear attentive to voices other than its own.
“You drink the water?” you ask. “I do.” I brag.
•
August eight: the truth has yet to be told:
a year, leaked away drop by stale drop,
has only left toxic staining spots.
They glare and moan with rubbing.
Perhaps the truth will never be told;
the telling: soothing balm or albatross,
a healing or a festering more vile;
the undoing more hurtful than the doing?
Belated Words 