A Premonition and a Foretelling – A Poem

A Premonitions and a Foretelling – A Poem

Let’s stop
to
veil the moon in cheesecloth and
recite together English translations of
Latin novels.

There are marvelous apathetic pools
waiting patiently
for us
to dip our feet into
to mirror our calves in a rippling half-light
to quench the combustible peace
we so jealously
forget.
Under different circumstances
we may have been
rodeo clowns
but that world has passed us by
and we can now but
only remain
friends for an evening.

I ask you for the silver broach
that we
discovered
on the chest
of my dead cat in your father’s yard
and you had kept
viciously
from me ever since
claiming it to be
a matter of property rights.
You tell me you had a
premonition
that day
of our future together
a vision
of hundreds
thousands
of mermaids that were all washed ashore and
whose flesh rotted in the stagnant
air
that covered the beach.
There were orange waves swirling between their
once voluptuously tempting
bodies
sweeping their lifeless limbs
in an eerie macabre dance
and your head hung morbid and full of
disgrace.

Your breath betrays your smile.

Heedless our play under the stars changed
one night
when a child fell from the heavens
into your lap
and I asked you her name.
Guinevere you said
and I foretold how in similar fashion
she too would betray
her pious king
as I stroked her dark hair gently and
wept over our fate.

An operator explained to me that the
expanding gulf stream was responsible
for the static
on the line between us.
I can barely decipher your
lustful garbled declaration
of how you will always cherish
my charm
wisdom and wit
my sophisticated
midnight
tantrums
with the cheeseclothed moon
lighting the thin skin of my back
and realizing
to my shame
that you never recognized that these were
only my defense.

A Day Late – A Poem

 

A Day Late

A day late
in the mind of a gymnasium
calisthenic training
the inevitable.

Frankincense burns at the altar
erected under a TV
showing recycled 24 hour news
and reassuring
no one in attendance.

Pistol dance
trance
a furtive glance

supper’s on the table
but the boy’s out
playing in the streets under showers
light
rain colors fragmenting
wet asphalt spray
and I’m still writing
my letters.

Juice bar orgy heart
flutters
bar stools all empty and the
concierge
packing breath mints in his pockets
for ladies
with eyes polarizing
dark.

Upset there was a garbage can
joined by a chain to a cinder block
by the overpass
in the parking lot out back.
Spring broke
early

the smell of death was awful.

torn in flux – A Poem

 

torn in flux

dandelion dress
photo
crash oblivion
summer painted toenails
a fresh breeze
screams easy and faint
blue run yellow road
gold lined grain stacked
stationary

oh be, be, be

torn in flux
spoken
pressed words
newly rested olive fantasy
reversed cream dusk
windowed open and
numb

and in the distance
mountains

Buying a House – A Short Story

“So it is serious then?”

“Well, we bought a house.”

“Does it have a large lawn?”

“It does, yes.”

“Then that is serious. And fortuitous. Congratulations! I am sure the two of you will be very happy with long lives and whopping big children. Maybe they will all play basketball.”

“Thank you! But I am not sure about the basketball part. I am afraid we are both a little on the short end. And we like soccer better.”

“I would never have thought that. I mean, you I can see are, as you said, a bit on the small side. Though I would say petit would be a more suitable word. But him I vision a tall, masculine man with the grace of a cat. Like he was a lost child of Ginger Rodgers.”

“He is graceful. You have that right. But just not that tall. Actually, he pretty short.”

“A short, graceful man? You don’t say. Very peculiar.”

“And the back yard is large. The house, I mean. It has a large back yard.”

“And the front?”

“Quite small. Almost non-existent.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Well, there is something about a large back yard only. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say it would be perhaps a need to hide something.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I’m sorry, but yes. It is all very psychological. Who chose the house?”

“Well, we both did. But he found it.”

“Did he?”

“Yes, and he said I would love it.”

“Do you?”

“I did. But now I don’t know. What could he be hiding?”

“It is hard to tell. Maybe a past event. Perhaps a secret lover. Or it could be a behavior he wants to make sure is not found out. Not knowing him better, I cannot really say.”

“Oh, but it all sounds too awful no matter what it is. What a terrible position I have found myself in.”

“Yes, you might want to take care.”

“I will. I will. But I don’t know what to do. What would you suggest?”

“Well if it were me, I would make sure to keep him away from liquor. And monitor his computer use. Does he use his phone much?”

“All the time.”

“Yes, that would have to change too.”

“That all makes sense. Except the liquor. He never drinks.”

“Really?”

“No. He will not touch a drop. He is very astute and serious. And he says drinking causes him to bloat and have gas.”

“That does sound sensible on his part. If that is the case, I would have him start to drink. It could be the thing to open his defenses and start to root out all his hidden secrets.”

“Of course! What a brilliant plan. You are a genius, you know. I mean it. With how you style your hair and all. It is like you are George Orwell and Margaret Thatcher all in one.”

“You are too kind. Such a tender compliment as I respect both with the utmost of satisfaction.”

“What drink should I start with, do you think?”

“I would go with something light, subtle, and demanding. Not vodka. It is too brutal. Oh, I know! Tequila! Yes. Specifically margaritas. Those will tempt the demon from him.”

“I hope it is not too dastardly a demon. I don’t think my heart can take it.”

“Oh dear, I am sorry to say but dastardly or not your heart is not safe. Demons of any size feast on the human heart. I would rather it be a large demon to have my heart be devoured all at once, instead of slowly like those little shit ones will do.”

*******************************************

So this would be my second short story I have posted that is dialog only. They are fun and enjoyable to write. Sometimes I want to break in and add more narrative, or descriptions, but then I think it will spoil the story, so I keep myself in check. Hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading.

A Labyrinth of Want – A Poem

 

A Labyrinth of Want

How the sunlight from the dawn
rising low in the east
is trapped
in a web of trees
entwined branches
keeping the hollow secure in the
shadows of night.

Our desire is restless as we
retreat into each other
your blue fingers
lingering
on my chest
dancing over a red mark formed
in a childhood dream
and your touch
alights in me a white passion.

I seek to sip the love that drips
from your tongue
cover my crimes
in the recesses of your flesh
adhere faithfully
to your whispered
pleaded commissions.
Your breasts swell
blush indigo
and burn my lips.
Locks of your hair fall
across your face
as all of our facades break
bleed and blend into
a mist
a memory
that floats tentatively about us
and then fades into
the insane.

The sun arches higher and
pours out into the vale
brightening the fragrances of
morning blossoms
that were held tight in a
dark anticipation.
I speak voiceless from the depths
lost in a labyrinth of want
captivated and
surrendering
to the seductive confines
of your thighs
my temporal longing of the eternal.

Red Bodices are Popular on Valentine’s Day – A Poem

Red Bodices are Popular on Valentine’s Day

She is outside following the duck
tracks in the snow.
A break in the ice might portend
an unhappy end.
“They like spring better, you know,”
she informs me.
“Who doesn’t,” I reply.

I am attracted to her imaginative
ponderings
the simple way she can describe
dandelion nightmares
dancing in Columbia.
“They float along the African
Trade Wind
gathering in gutters and springing
from cracks in the sidewalks.”

It is a cold February.
A month I hate due to its singular nature.
But she is alive in boots and heavy
coat and I am infected
by the sheer amazement of her existence
and my own guilt ridden doubt.

“They say red bodices are popular
on Valentine’s Day.
That there is a spike in sales.
Do you believe that?
It is ridiculously clever
if true
though I don’t
personally
put any faith in it.”

And as a man who has given up faith
altogether
I can only acquiesce to her
assessment.

She picks up handfuls of snow
and tosses them
in the air.
And they flurry busily
all about
until they are blown away
as she is blown away
by a breeze
like dandelions
on an African Trade Wind.

I reach down into myself and
take stock at my own worthlessness.
Left alone and
pointlessly looking back
at duck tracks
left
in the snow.

When the World Ends – A Poem

 

When the World Ends

“Have you wondered where you would wake up
tomorrow
if the world ended tonight? Personally
I am unabashed in my preference,”
I say to my children over a game of cards
at our dining table.
Jupiter is clear and bright in their
eyes. Reflecting like a sonnet that
wilts while recited. They call my bluff
by raising my bet.
So I relate to them the true account
of Grimbald
as a warning.

“Grimbald was a cat”
I say to them as they listen rapt and restless
“who sold the last of his whiskers for rice
so he could continue to write
unimpeded his confession to the murder
of Maxwell
a laundry mat attendant
in a duel over Tillie
the laundry mat’s owner’s daughter. Ten paces they took
and then two pistols fired on one oddly cool August morning.
Romantically birds would have flown from the trees
after the shots
rang out
as a salute to poor Maxwell at the moment of his death
but there were no birds. Or anyone really. The only
witness to the tragic affair being
The Badger
who served as a stoic attendant
to ensure the correct policies were
adhered during the event.  After the loss of her true love
Tillie shaved off all her bourbon colored hair
and fashioning the locks into a rope
tied herself with it to a mosaic tile she found in the basement. She
drowned herself in the pool at her mother’s estate
in upper Vermont.
It is said her ghost still resides there
at the bottom. In an eternal lonely wetness
since no one will
swim there anymore out of a respectful fear. As for
Grimbald the cat
he was acquitted on the grounds of a broken heart. He immigrated
to South America
to  live reclusively in the Andes
managing a bee farm.”

After my telling this true account of which I came into the possession of
by hearsay, rumor and
by third hand information
and after many a grievously lost hand on my part
I ask the children again
where they would wake
when the world ends.
The middle child smiles with his winnings stacked and sparkling
off of his teeth
and says
“Somewhere under the stars.” Which makes me grin
and breathe easy for the evening.