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I keep my feet moving,
in fervent hope that it will keep my mind stepping in place,
that I can prevent that slide,
that clumsy slipping toward the edge.
The head of this pin has little room to spare
but I have been told to dance,
so with artful hands and smilemask fixed firm,
the drop blurring into star trails around the outskirts.
And I wonder about that slide,
I feel the pull and hear it hint that the
last seconds of the fall
would be the most fulfilling,
a whole and glittering life before my eyes,
but I am no angel,
I have no wings,
nothing would carry me,
nothing would save the dance.
Its call would be the last I answered,
and I am not ready to ring down the curtain,
and if the tune is changing,
my dance must adapt.
If others join me I must be ready to show them the steps,
willing to share the slick and silver space,
willing to be crowded,
willing to hold on
And I keep my feet moving,
and I keep my mind moving,
and I just
I stare at the sky and keep watch as the stars disappear,
so I know that I’m in the right place,
the oblivion I crave,
lies just over the hills,
The shouts of the world coating my ears like tar,
and I wrap my hands around my ribs tightly so they don’t slip through and cling,
sitting on my chest and holding breath captive,
until I am forced to ransom myself and turn,
I stare at the road,
winding underneath without thought or care
of the feet moving with such purpose,
and with such conviction.
Aware that determination can also be mislabelled,
can be judged and found wanting,
and those steadfast feet
The turn is my enemy and the hills beckon,
and the last stars wink out
letting my eyes adjust
to the darkness,
and the final rise comes at last,
and now then,
and now then…
Will the world resist?
Will it cling?
Or will it let me go with grace,
with a last pleading embrace,
and then release
watching with old,
as I stumble forward.
As the prize pours out like
balm across my head and I bow,
with the emptying.
The squares are filled and in line we wait,
soft bellied mannequins,
secure in our appointed space,
Who will be the first to cross?
What paint, what slogan will rise like a balloon and clutch the senses,
if for but a moment, in shutter speed.
Who will break the line?
Who will stand motionless?
Putting their faith in their painted blind,
believing it waterproof and impregnable,
until the rain washes them away,
and that spurious security is thrown aside like a wrong number.
I read your fortune in a handful of dust,
in a flame that burns sere green and yellow,
the words borrowed from someone elses mouth,
filed and fitted to the need in yours.
Do not thank me for this,
in the war of glass animals
all will be broken,
all flames will burn higher,
fed by ink and paper
rising one last time,
into the crowd,
who only at the very last,
will weep for the words dying overhead,
will weep for the sad and broken glass animals,
who bleed to splintered death trying to stay hidden,
to evade the lions gaze,
who blame the knife and not the butcher.
Your fortunes are now scattered in the hot wind,
and the boxcars are approaching,
packed brimful with the next line of mannequins.
Your war is over,
the fires damped,
and the shattered glass swept away…
Strange Days ~
A stranger tells you that you are made of strange days,
that those children fair and full of grace
are not related,
are not for you.
And before you can reply
or with supreme indifference
arched in a sardonic eyebrow,
he is gone.
The street chatter filling in,
closing up the air where he stood.
Why did he say that?
What did it mean?
Why do you care?
Strange days making up a map of nameless islands,
ringed by harsh mountains and
oceans of tooth and claw and smothering seatangle,
here there be monsters….
A stranger tells you that you have no claim
with the fair and the blessed.
With whom do you align with then?
What kith surrounds you and fills all the roles in your inner stage?
And what part is this dropped upon you
The sky still hangs overhead
and the well worn shoes on your feet are recognized,
and the spaces inside you tossing
like a small plastic boat in a draining bathtub,
and yet your thoughts chase over and over,
the words he threw at your feet and left you to trample.
Why did he say that?
What did it mean?
Why do you care?
Why do you care?
Why should you care?
“Audaces fortuna iuvat.” “Fortune favors the bold.” ~ Virgil
“Virtue has a veil, vice a mask”. ~ Victor Hugo
Costumed in red and yellow they scamper through the streets
and knuckle the doors
the hot sun pooling,
as if splashing,
molten hot from a crucible,
around their feet
the Carnevale is coming….
Porcelain, peacock blue, emerald green and gold mask the windows,
and the air is an elixir,
and the very stones smell of chocolate,
of sour spilled wine and orange peel.
Stained by magic old and new,
by sex and mystery and rainstorms.
Demons and Courtesans eye each other familiarly
while the golden tower is carried through the square
and a humming cry spirals up from the crowd,
its energy bending and glowing as if the moon were melting.
Beads my darling?
the vendors sing
Jugglers and fortune tellers and disappearing…
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Another day in this house of mirrors,
the hallways heave with amusement as your eyes are foiled once more…
A trick of the light?
A trick of the trade?
A mind playing tricks?
No cheese at the end of this labyrinth only
the headache that has become your closest friend,
and the signs that could direct you
start spinning like a weather vane
the moment you find passage.
another line of smudges where you tried to feel your way,
your eyes closed because they can no longer be trusted,
and your nose crinkled against the scent of your panic.
The senses you have left are
fluttering like a light dazzled moth,
banging like an enraged gorilla in a too small cage.
not here not here not here…
The cities so far below,
misted and uncertain,
like a puzzle tossed carelessly.
And we stood together,
you and I,
and talked of long histories made when the sky was newborn,
and names had not been breathed into being,
there was no direction we did not see,
could not see,
so the fall,
when it came,
and without warning.
The view of who is good and who is bad,
is largely decided by where you are standing when the world explodes,
for black and white are only shades.
With heart and hands of stone I dug,
through the plains and caverns,
the high places and lowest of the low,
always hoping for a token,
and sliver of you left as a levee,
to hold against the tidal wave of knowing,
that would surely come,
and rend me,
into the void,
with that last question still clinging to my open mouth,
as a sunset holds with desperate fastness to the shore,
until the waters drown it.
Never is a long time.
Never is a vast desert with sterile skies
and only the music of the dunes to listen to.
I lifted my eyes at the end of it all,
to meet yours,
your eyes still,
although strange and hardened by the ground you anchored to,
and leaned into that unnamed wind
wordless and begging
and your mouth barely moved as you said,
“You will never forgive me for falling, will you?”
and I whispered,
“No, I will never forgive you for leaving me behind.”
And then I too