In the House of Time and Mirrors

 

A woman I used to be got up out of her grave

trailing rose vines and the scent of men's cologne.

She swung the decades on a knotted ribbon

and said, "There you are, more wounded, more brave."

I replied that I am made of newspaper and moondust,

a castle composed of carnations and  wives' tales.

Meet my lover, incorporeal and not yet born--

she admires my home-baked bread and scent of must.

A woman I used to be gifted me a moue

useless and juvenile, then beat me with her 

limited beauty. "You are wise but ugly," she 

said, haughty and stupid, then looked away. 

A woman I used to be got up out of her grave

trailing rose vines and the scent of men's cologne.

I swung her head from an antique silver chain

and said, "Here you are, more wounded every day."

_________

Looking For The Light

 

When you look in the right place, there it will be.

(I'm talking about light.)

Your eye interprets everything from within.

Blue skies, gray skies, all an illusion.

The light of your life isn't in a face or a star.

When you look in the right place, there it will be. 

You have thought yourself a moon, reflecting.

Rods and cones are the heart's handmaidens.

(I'm talking about light.)

That person, that sunrise, they are lit because you lit them,

just as they lit you, from loneliness, darkness.

Your eye interprets everything from within. 

______

A cascade poem for What's Going On? "The Coming of the Light"

The Notion Of You

 

I loved you

and that has left me

a sister of a dead order. 

I carry in asters

gone from purple to brown

to lay on the altar

but can't set them down.

Faith is a funny thing and I carry a cross

though the texts are tainted,

the deity lost.

St. Catherine of Alexandria

was nourished by milk from doves--

not by the relics and bones

of the notion of you, that I loved.

I am of the order, but not the abbess

at whose jeweled theca ghosts bow--

I carry my head like the body and bread

of the Chosen One loved by you now. 

______

for Dverse Meeting The Bar "Conceit"

Painted Meat Envelope

 The painted meat envelope in its gauzy cocoon 

opened its food hole to show its bone rows,

Charming the larger meat envelope, who vocalized:

You're the most beautiful bride ever, Gina."

_____

for Sunday Muse #180. 

Dyslexia

 

I caught an echo of my father

in the way you wear your coat

In the way you're not entirely there

but linger on like smoke

I was looking for a thing that's gone

like those pens with tubes of ink

like mucilage or gum erasers

or feeling loved, I think

Now I've freighted you and burdened you 

and slowed you from yourself

with drapery of memory

I should hook and part myself

But all it was, was honor, sir

all it was was need

to make of you a palimpsest

that I could sigh and read.

_______

For Sunday Muse #178, where I am hosting

the image is actor Alden Ehrenreich

The Man With The Glass Eye

The man with the glass eye
possesses smooth clarity of vision.
He rolls his glass eye
to dispense balm for frail children who then recover.

Look into his glass eye.
You will see yourself split into fractals--
all the selves you are capable of being.
He greets each one
warmly, personally.

At night, he sets his eye on the nightstand
in a glass of solution.
It shimmers like a planet there, from which horoscopes might be drawn.
In the morning he replaces it and is filled with intelligent resolve.

If you meet the man with the glass eye,
do not ask what happened to his "real" eye.
It is in your head,
whispering sweetly.
_____

for Day 10 of my 39 poems in 39 days.

image: Tete d'homme barbu by Picasso.

Anna

Anna was the only one of my friends that my mother liked,
but mom is dead, and Anna has moved to L.A.

Most of my friends, though big-hearted and funny,
were smokers, or "heavy", or "not going anywhere."
I asked, "Where is it you think I'm going?" 
and scooped myself a big-ass sundae.
You know that weapons-grade disapproving look? Mom invented it,
but felt it played better without dialogue.

Mom used to come knockless into my room,
pushing aside ten notebooks jammed with jumblefuck poetry and lyrics,
to tell me get up, do something, stick with something for once.
I wander into the weeds, it's true--wasn't I telling you about Anna? 
Well, back to that. 

Anna is the kind of woman Anna the girl started out to be.
No stops, no bullshit, just straight on and damn the roadkill.
For convenience, here is a planner for you:
If you want to be broke, make Anna your accountant.
If you want to be childless, hire Anna as your nanny.
If you want to meet doctors, install Anna as your chef.
If you want to test your strength, marry Anna and hold on.

I lost touch with Anna, but mom always liked her.
Anna was venomous, but had a perfect smile.
Anna was heartless, but used blusher to pink her cheeks.
Anna was vile, but dressed well for church on Sunday.
Anna was filled with rot from her hair to her shoes,
but knew the best salons
and always wore good perfume.
______

for Bits of Imagination: "Perfume."

Love Song for Connie Corleone

You made a fine and unforgettable bride,
but your husband...?
We won't be bothered with him anymore.

Beautiful as you were,
it is you, now, who captures my greater admiration.

I love your hair tied back headache tight,
the widows' weeds, and the jewelry
heavy as freight on a delivery truck.

What I love most is the flock in your eyes,
the murder of crows,
the steel of the guillotine behind your smile.

Let me be your command, darling,
already carried out.
________

for Real Toads. The theme is "eyes". I have exceeded the 75 word limit by 7 words, but it wasn't personal, only business!

 

dead beauty

Professor Christophe Keskesay adored beauty,
sought it,
championed it,
would have liked to wade right into it, if he could.

"You little troll," said his wife.
She had once been a dancer, but was now a horror,
sucking on black cigarettes,
and as wrinkled around the lips and eyes
as if she had kept them open while kissing Decay on the mouth.

Professor Keskesay could have forgiven her churlish bad temper.
He could have forgiven her grasping, shallow nature;
but her ugliness pained him to his core.

It seemed to him that the beauties of an earlier era
possessed a rare charm that had been somehow lost over time.
How they shone!
How their sepia faces made his heart quicken
and his soul expand!
Why would they not speak to him?

Finally, he could stand it no longer.
Sharp at midnight, he went to the famous cemetery where the beautiful slept.
He passed the poets, disregarded the financiers,
and strode straight to the marker of Babette Jolie-Fille
the celebrated star of the silents.

He dug her up.
"Still enchanting! Still a goddess!" he exclaimed,
casting away his shovel in order to embrace her.
From then on, the joyous Professor Keskesay could be seen
tooling about town in his 1929 convertible,
with Babette leaning against him, her scarves flowing in the wind.

Shyly, blushing like a girl, he confessed to her
that she made him feel more alive than he had felt in years!
How his fine sensitivity had been wasted on his gruesome wife!
He thanked her with diamonds, stoles, and endless passionate desire!
Though she never spoke, he understood her perfectly.
She was the Queen of the Silent Screen,
and to speak would only ruin everything.
How wise she was, in addition to her matchless beauty!

The Professor presently divorced his hideous cow of a wife,
and married Babette, in a necessarily private ceremony.
So composed she always was,
knowing how just the right pose and poise
could bring the world to her doorstep--
a dazzled Mountain coming, hat in hand, to her,
the most voluptuous and female Mohammed ever to grace the garden
where Professor Keskesay liked most to place her chair.

Together, of an evening,
they would watch melting, disintegrating celluloid reels
of Babette in her heyday,
the Professor scarcely glancing at the screen, but rather,
gazing continuously at her, seeing only her fineness and her pulchritude.
After many years of this, the Professor died--
his love had built to such a pitch, that his heart simply burst,
and he keeled over at Babette's tiny feet.

The silent vixen was buried in the cemetery for the famous,
with Professor Keskesay beside her--
her second interment, his first.
Some said she was rotted away,
nothing but bones and gray tendons in a bejeweled gown;
but to the Professor, she was always the ideal of feminine perfection,
and because of this, as any woman who's been truly loved could tell you,
she really was,
and their souls still entwine
demurely out of the sight of unbelievers.
_________

for Izy's Out of Standard at Toads.