(she is unable to appear
in a fashion other than
menacing)
“I find it better
to view life as a
vacation
from oblivion”
(from her purse she
removes and unfurls
a paper umbrella
placing it the vent hole
of her container
of coffee)
“even the worst of it
is pretty cool
when compared with
oblivion”
I despise the elaborate
I detest the ornate
I want to smash glass cabinets
filled with all the precious things
I want to chisel the cartouche
so the names may never be known
I will burry the box holding
everything I’ve lost
In the back
Near the statue
Which marks the location
Of the septic tank
And I will not cry
Nor will I laugh
I will walk away
.
The dead will remain
first
(she unfolds her napkin
blots her lips quickly
mechanically
and lays it upon
her lap)
there is only one thing
which I know to be true
(She sits up straight
scanning the room
rapidly locating
the Exit signs)
the only thing that changes
as we travel through
our lives are the
numbers which confine us
(She smiles at the server
as the menus are delivered
and looks briefly down at them
with the knowledge that nothing
within the blood red leather folder
could ever satisfy her)
and the names of those
for whom we have been
a great disappointment
(opening the menu
she allowed the absurdity
of the candle light
to cause her eyes to sparkle
in the pretense of darkness
imposed upon this luncheon table)
people say that I don’t smile enough
(she makes eye contact
and slips a small
dangerous grin
into the glasses of water
set so closely together)
and also that I seem to miss the point
of small talk
I wanted to say
That we have forgotten to self edit
But I would be wrong
We no longer care to self edit
We have crucified the curator
we have moved or collective bowels
in the hallowed halls of honor and reason
Post truth/pro ignorance
Boy doesn’t this feel good
to shout the strange words professional wrestlers
have brought to our lexicon
I’m an an outcast because I’ve read
The Idiot
But hesitate to lay that title upon my rival
I summon the spirit of Yevtushenko
And stand atop a table
in a sea-side McDonalds
I cry
“So sad a time in which we live
When common decency
is mistaken for valor”
In my heart I feel the shackles
break
it coulda been different
she said
failing to hide an accent
tears
and any number
of past due notices
i remember it all
metal shelves lined
promise of relief from
symptoms of systems
and the ever popular
ennui located in aisle 9
among both types of critter
next to the french auburn twist
(she stifles laughter as her
friend insists on spiritually
depantsing each package
and it’s intention)
which sounds just nummy
something I would wish
to eat
i know it’s not everyday
that the yanks and sox
play it out in the bronx
it just seems like that
sometimes
we all feel the weight
making a living
forgetting to make a life
tip toe away from the places which hurt
decorate dead trees to celebrate birth
and we glow
but it is a nauseating light
battery powered tea candles
without regard for wind
water
elements which exist beyond
our own personal chemistry
the sphere of influence
which draws others close
the jingle of keys in shaking hands
possess a magical power
they change our prisons into homes
inside we sing oh silent night
because the silence is too much
because the candles won’t ever flicker
because time passes
because life is a virus
infecting the perfect body of death
(she shakes her head
keeping her distance
if only to prove entropy
the only law to which
she is subservient)
because blue is the color
of the sky pretending to be innocent
because
after all
it’s only a theory
the toe of a strappy sandal
pushes a handbag full of sorrows
further under the table set
the rewards of savagery
arranged on gold-edged plates
proving the sacred geometry
of any given moment
all of our faults are tiny fractures
places where the tension builds
patiently tapping fingernails
along a ring of fire we can
hardly embrace without
the consideration
of toasted almond gelato
which appears to be
the only certainty left
for mankind
a sly writhing of upturned lips
smile hiding slit silk skirt shifting
a little too high exposing
wicked intentions simmering
while she plots the destruction
of every temple she has known
savoring the piggy eyed stare
part terror part lustful lip quivering
safely a table top away
and i wonder why we do this
solemn fork benediction the
blessing of the wine
the breaking of bread
the inevitable time one of us
will spend upon bent knee
worshiping the holy word
made flesh
between satin thighs
the warm wet velvet
of our deepest hope and fear both
predicated upon the successful
completion of barbaric ritual
the mastication of the soul
combined with the precision
of using the proper spoon
at the precise time reciting
exacting incantations to ensure
an illusion erased at dawn’s
first breaking
she laughs inside
and thinks of a boy allowing
a single shameless tear escape
letting the silver rest upon
the margin of her plate
hands draw back
fingers interweave hidden
in the imaginary calm of her lap
eye lash batting the flutter
summons one thousand
butterflies from brazil
changing everything
just as the witch
predicted
all of it 