Phaleron

At Cassie's Diner,

the eggs are never over and rarely easy.

Your waitress may be falling in love with you,

or with your husband, or with the hard "R" when you say ,

"I must have left my bag in the car."

She may be in love with you, or

you only think she is.

She may be unavailable, or not even listening as you order. 

Every plate is a surprise

balanced on her arm like row of flat Earths,

the coffees steaming like new planets

And one of them has your name on it.

The napkins open to exactly the right passage,

the one you thought you'd never find,

Written by Athenian scribes in shimmering antiquity.

Aren't you glad you came?

(That was unexpected, yeah?)

Cassie's Diner is conveniently located

at the intersection of Eros and Morpheus,

open 24 hours, accessible by accident, vegan-friendly, 

unpredictable buffet, situated on a slight incline, nice view of the bay.

_______

For Dverse Poetics: "Poetics at the restaurant."

image at top is Charlotte Gainsbourg.

Athena and the Air's Machinations

My lungs speak, one to the other,
all night while owls tap at the window
sending Morse love poems to Athena.

They know I don't trust the air--not since Athena left.
I wear this bulky space suit everywhere, even into my dreams.

A fixer with a burlap bag gathered the owls and brought them back,
along with window glass, some putty, and a frame.
Now my lungs discuss the view, plan pilgrimages, and pointedly exclude me.

Athena loved the poems I could breathe out at will,
but wearied of my ladder collection and habit of communicating only by hieroglyph. 
Now everything is lungs, owls,
night, space suits,
and the stilling of the back door still redolent 
with Athena's scent and the trackless void of my own exhalations.
_____

(belatedly cos my I was off the grid) for Sunday Muse #79.

About Athena

She's a headache, father. 
You know it better than any.
And what about that bird she insists upon having?
It swoops down from the top of the chiffarobe
whenever I walk in carrying laundry. 

Oh, I talk to her.
She just gets out those everlasting scales and stands there
without saying a word.
The owl twists its neck and gapes too.
It's unnerving.

I went through her closet
--looking for drugs!--
and there, at the bottom of a tube of tennis balls,
I found a lightning bolt.
What do you suppose she's doing with that? 

Finally, I went through her dresser.
The owl started pacing on the chiff like a constable.
Athena walked in just as I found them--
"Will you be snooping...er, staying for lunch, Mother?"
--six dead rats laid all in a row
like a diamond necklace.
_________

for Poets United Midweek Motif--Owls

Athena

Athena--Mama said
not to go out in the
garden
barefoot
after it rains.

Ignore her. Do 
it anyway.
You are a Goddess--

the Earth moves at
your whim,
between
your toes.

Athena--every foot-
print you ever make
will be
erased
eventually.

Never mind that.
Never mind Mama.
Go change
the world

by walking barefoot
in the mud, by
picking a 
flower, by
being you, right now, in the world as it is.
_____

for Hannah's "footprints" challenge. I hope it's adequate; I don't feel much like writing.

 
 

 

Stymphalian Birds

for KJS

Zeus,
reduced to a fairy story,
his powers a parlor trick,
is told a joke by the Stymphalian Birds,
themselves now kept by old ladies who clip coupons
and attend Mass on Wednesday,
scattered like matrix dots around the pews.

Zeus laughs,
frothing around his too-fat lips.
This froth falls as snow flakes, here,
on the shoulders of our wool coats,
colored charcoal and navy blue.
Isn't that just like a man
to leave a mess?
And why this place, this park, this January dusk?
Why us?

"Stop bitching, sweetheart," you tell me,
turning to face me, slow as a blizzard cloud.
You place one black-gloved hand in my pocket,
the other over my heart,
and kiss me quiet as midnight.

"I want a Stymphalian Bird," I whisper,
later,
in your ear,
my tongue as careless as grandma's Siamese.
"You have one," you say to me.
It's true,
and isn't that just like a woman
to love such hard sharp feathers,
trusting her heart to a matchstick nest
balanced in a tinder tree?

Zeus,
you has-been, you local character,
boring the birds right out of the sky--
behold my darling, your daughter, your headache from the start--
with beak of bronze, bolts of fire,
and her pretty owl--
my heart.
________

for Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads.  

Athena, On The Down Side

When a girl springs, fully formed, from the forehead of a God,
certain things are expected of her.
At Wellesley, they wouldn't let her keep her owl in the dorm,
so she made the first of many fateful decisions and told them to stick it.

Athena sits inside the bus kiosk on 8 Mile Road,
the one that some drunk smashed one of the windows out of with a trash barrel.
She hasn't got the fare,
and her crappy Payless shoes aren't making the walk seem very appealing.
Beside her on the bench is a beat-up backpack.
Behind her, doing a brisk business, is a fish market that must be some alley cat's dream.

For a while, she had a waitressing job at a Coney Island place in Detroit.
Her name tag said "Minerva", and she was on her feet for twelve hours at a time,
setting down plates of gyro petas or feta omelets
for fat truckers and hip hop fakers
while Seger sang about Main Street from the speakers in the ceiling.

Athena is tired, and none of the old Olympian crowd ever calls anymore.
The number 17 Gratiot Avenue bus goes by,
heading east and spinning old plastic grocery bags into the air behind it.
Athena does not smoke or drink, at least not anymore.
She's not a bad gal; 
when she's got a dollar she buys cat treats for Shopping Cart Bonnie's little stray,
but today Bonnie's off her meds and is having a screaming match with nobody anyone can see.

Athena thinks about packing it in,
mostly because her feet hurt and her looks are gone
and 8 Mile Road is so trashy it makes a girl feel she's failed just by being there.
Three things will decide her future:

the condition of the stars tonight; their nearness, the perfection of the constellations, or their absence because of clouds or impenetrable indigo--

the number of headlights heading west on the 8 Mile Road overpass, as opposed to those traveling east. Even numbers denote harmony, odd numbers warn of injury and loss.

the activities of her owl; if the bird returns in the dawn with jewels, gorgeous poems, or small animals with fur as soft as mercy, then she will kiss his feathers and believe that she is still a woman to be reckoned with, the Keeper of the Bolts; but if the bird never comes back at all, or returns wounded, trailing a leg or a wing, she will know her own days are numbered.

It is getting dark and the fish market is closed.
The last 420 bus to the State Fairgrounds has already passed by,
and Athena is still sitting inside the kiosk, 
no place for a lady to linger for long.
She's looking for the stars,
the lights,
and the bird associated with her name when she was Somebody--
Not like now.
Not like this.
Not on a bet.
_______

for Fireblossom Friday

  

   

Advice

I was a chattering child
living in the Sturm und Drang
until a jealous dark star filled my mouth with snow and silence.

There I stayed, a drift with nothing to say
for decades and donkey's years,
feet nailed to the floor to prevent St. Vitus' Dance.

Though silent, I was not stupid--
I hid my heart in the hollow of a tree
until such time as I could own the fever, 
like a yogi or a bush doctor.

Over ages, slow as a slat-leaked barrel,
I incubated language inside my teeth;
each word sharp as truth and long as lies.

I pulled the nails up inside my feet,
until I had claws, and when I finally moved,
it was under a sign-moon, quick as a curse.

I spat out the snow and my mouth learned new tricks--
there were the poems I garlanded from asters and barbed wire.
There were the women who listened, and whom I kissed.

Long ago, I went back to claim my heart from the tree,
and bargained with the guardian owl for a fair price
and her share of a summer night.

I gave myself a name, and the name means "beloved".
From that day until this, I have walked up and down upon the earth;
the snakes know me and hush their hiss.

Still, for all that, here is what I have learned,
and it is a woman's lesson, to be kept in a locket,
in a trunk, in secret, against bad fortune when it comes in threes:

Remember, girl,
that silence may still have its moment.
Remember the bird who can hide your heart,
and when the wind swings down and the moon goes dark,
remember you can run.
Remember 
you can run.

_______

top image "In The Woods 2" by onkami, both images found on weheartit.com

poem idea inspired by the Catie Curtis song "Run", which I can't find a video of, but the lyrics can be found HERE.

Athena, SWF

I'm just a woman
with an owl on her shoulder
and the moon at her back.

I like the windows open,
and the air cold.
I prefer cloth to satin, silver to gold.

I didn't just roll in, some girl from the burbs.
I have marks on my body
from lessons sharp and black.

When you kiss me, if you kiss me,
put your hands on me high, and I'll close my eyes;
just don't forget my owl

with her vigilance,
her talons
and her soft deceptive cries.
________

not for any prompt. *facepalm*