(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”
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
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
i wish there were a god
who would take responsibility
for all the shenanigans
instead of just the wonder
i wish their were angels
fighting a heavenly battle
keeping the forces of evil
far from my peaceful slumbers
i wish there was a heaven
where we all could meet again
all the faces i have loved
drink tall drinks and dance
i wish there was a hell
with demons i could blame
when i transgressed
hurting those most close
yet i remain grateful
for the light of this day
reflecting off of the tree
outside my window
grateful to witness
flowers which bloom and die
my connection to ants
which crawl across toes
full moons and half moons
floating upon celestial oceans
the stars which fall
and those that stay
i am grateful for all that i know
the unanswered questions
best left ’til tomorrow
when the wine is all gone
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
Lanyards woven by delicate fingers
Used to cut off the supply of oxygen
Our brains soften first sometimes after death
Often before dinner with friends who consider
Attractive minds misunderstood mistaken for infirmity
The benediction of over active synapses firing the servants
Your noise is beautiful they say when I dream
At the table other stories are revealed when
Stirling silver domes are lifted and the gestures
Poached contempt and nervous laughter
Litter the finery the proud faces slick with fat
Bits of flesh caught mid smirk in dull teeth
Dull eyes dull wit clinging to the hope the need
For the help to come and clear this mess
Bring sweet truffles and carved melons
Before you start to burn
And the cloth and curtains
Consumed in maddened sunsets
Wake them from insincerity
Return them to the power
Held in revolving credit
how dare you
make me feel loved
(tears drip onto blank page
memories of a big girl singing
jazz a cappella in a back-lit
brooklyn walk-down summer
night hazy from burning flowers
the clear voice a conviction of
the spirit wrapped in a candy
bracelet given sanctuary from
persecution in the holy cloud
mortal cloud the way all things
ultimately point in one direction)
i was numb and liking it maybe
like is too strong a word but content
no that is apostasy maybe just numb
with an attitude that approximates life
(red-headed smiles cut through the
bullshit holding his hand while it was
still his to offer and the voice rings
reverberating echoing bouncing about
inside the deep longing the soul near
starvation the tiny ship cast broken
upon the rocks of a desperate shore
barren save for the sea shell madness
fragmented piercing her flesh the soft
tender the exposed belly and throat)
i could live happily were I some one other
were I able to leave my heart to rest here
forever
i have a ceiling fan
which i never have
turned off i believe
it to be the lynchpin
for this reality of
time and space
(there are little rifts about
the place seams come
undone corsets after the
closing time arias are
sung
she admires
certain cracks
more than others mostly
measured by their ingenuity
mimicking faces of
saints and other
historical figures)
i slept directly under it for
a whole summer daring it
to fall
but clearly that never happened
although one night
i heard the neighbors fucking
in the back of
his blue pick up truck
and i guess
that counts for something
(she has determined that
lemon drops
the ones dusted
lightly with corn starch
the ones her father’s
mother liked so much
are truly wonderful)
but i won’t shut it off
either way
just in case it is more
than just
a silly feeling
all of it 