The Watering Hole

The stark contrast of

Black and white

Works for them

In the dusty dry brown

Of the savannah

In their herd

They remain strong

Indistinguishable

From on another

And it is mere chance

That one

As opposed to any other

Is singled out

By their predator.

A sea of legs

Shaven and glossed

With body lotion

Three inch spikes

A red pair

A black pair

A silver pair

Short little skirts that hug

Tight little rumps

And tight little tops

That reveal almost

All there is to reveal

They desire so much

To be singled out

Yet remain indistinguishable

To their predator

In the savannah

The lioness paces

Then lies low in the tall grasses

Watching the zebras at the watering hole

It matters not which one she takes down

So long as by the end of the hunt

Her prize is a memory on her tongue

And fills her now empty belly.

The red head, the blond,

The brunette it matters not

Tomorrow he will have conveniently lost

the telephone number

And forgotten the name

But tonight he approaches

Ready to trade the cost of a drink

For her prize.

Poseidon's Cup

                                                Photograph (c) Clara Wochholz, 2012


It asks nothing of me
Drink or don't
I know I must
Or die of thirst.

It taunts me
as I lay in my cold bed
it is so late; and I,
desperate for sleep,
am invaded; peace stolen
and replaced by distraction
one droplet at a time.

It rushes from its home
upon the high mountain
falling falling
the endless stream
downward into this whorl
Into which I desire to leap
To splash and play
to lose myself and thereby
find what is true.

It calls me from the darkest places,
like wisps of fingery fog,
and that clang clang
from the boats in the harbor
which I love so dearly;
Come down with me, come deeper down
Gulls' cries have only scorn
and the waves beat so certain
like my heart; which cannot be stopped,
Not even when the air in my lungs
has been replaced by liquid death.

In Disguise

From the time he learned
That fingers are for something
Other than sucking
He took things apart
To the chagrin of his mother
Who scolded and fussed
Then threw away the broken bits
Until he learned
To take them apart
In secret
Saving time
To put the bits back
Piece by piece
Into one complete
Functioning part.

He gots Cs and Ds
Except when it came to
Making batteries
Slicing frogs
And blowing up models
Of volcanoes and Messerschmitts.

Scout camp
Space camp
NASA camp
Air Force Academy
Then NASA for real
All was calculated
Put together
Bit by bit
Leading him to
His shot in space.

And finally, at last,
When the mission orders came,
Kissing wife goodbye
Riding high on a rocket
Leaving earth behind
Looking out the window
Of the tiny capsule
Seeing blue water
Green continents
And shiny ice caps
He was stunned to discover
The scientist he knew
Himself to be
Was really a poet
In disguise.

The Broken Road

                                     http://www.nps.gov/frsp/images/Confederate-dead-in-the-Sun.jpg

Afterwards

When the bullets had ripped through

Their glorious youthful bodies

Afterwards

When the victors took the field

Then pressed onward to the next fight

Afterwards

When the women and children had wandered

Picking through blood stained pockets

Afterwards

When the carnage was left for vultures

To feast upon with delight

Afterwards

When the thunder let loose

And the rainclouds mourned

Afterwards

A lone chicken was seen pecking

Along the broken road.

Mirage

I walk

In the desert

Sand catches

between my toes

Lips cracked

Skin raw

And my eyes

My eyes dry

Void of tears

I cannot wash

The past away.

I wake

Everything the same

Make tea

Shower and dress

Turn on the ignition

And drive into the world.

Once I lived

In an oasis

Made of pearl streets

And pink purple palms

Warm breezes and cool pools

Of liquid orgasms;

Until my eyes

My dry eyes
Opened to see

White coat stethoscope
Holding a vial in one hand

Syringe in another

You have been sick

But now the delusions

Are at an end.

I no longer write

I cannot trust

Where fiction begins

Whether reality exists

Five minutes of zen

Am I thoughts or mind

Or breath or impatience

I know the sand is real

A speck rests in my eye

I can feel it and believe in it

In the way I can never

Believe in you again.

December 26th

I squint now

at the blinking lights

Green and red

Discarded ribbon

in the gutter

A single day later

And the world

has changed

back.

They cannot

yank these things down fast enough.

These memories of hope

That cling like cobwebs

And spring cleaning

is so far off.

In a week

we shall drown the last memories

Of all which has not passed

In a debauchery

Pushing out tradition

For the favored new

Clean slate

Try again.

Youth is so much more coveted

then haggard traditions

Madison Avenue was right

To replace Jesus with Santa Claus

who understands we prefer presents

to forgiveness.

Despite having no resolutions

Save to leave Christmas

to the hucksters;

I fear next year

being snared once again

And I will be caught up in the tinsel

and dizzied by the bells

Tripping over my own

self-righteousness

into the mall

of consumption.

Twenty-four hours later

And the scent of cynicism rises

from the streets

And I pass in

through the revolving door

to exchange the unwanted

And though I find no counter

for compassion or mercy

These leather purses

are exceptionally fine.

A Letter to Death

Angel of Death by Evelyn De Morgan (1890)

They say opposites attract,
And being true, there is no other
To whom I belong more,
My most patient lover,
Who waits in silence

Who waits in the dark.

I know what it is to be trapped,
Inside myself unwanting

To crawl out of bed,
Unable to open the window;
I know what it is to taste
The seeds of passion,
And travel deep

Beyond familiar terrain,
Venturing into the unexplored

Territories of ecstasy;
Like an ancient quest for peyote,
Pleasures of the body

Drugging my mind.

We are so quick

To slap on labels,
The pharmaceutical companies
Have seen to that;
For everything we live
Is but a disease,

A syndrome, a psychosis;
We are not to blame

For the ravages of body and mind

For our choices and our acts;
Surely we must be fixed
For our reactions are anything,
But natural, human, and honest.

Children rush,

When the ride is over
Pushing to the front of the line,
Boarding the rollercoaster yet again,
The slow climb upward as if to Heaven,
Then plunging down at breathtaking speed,
All screams and giggles with each twist and turn,
The rush of the wind, the force that pulls.

Manic, bipolar, paranoid, depressed,
Within accepted parameters of behavior,
Robotic-like in their cars,
Paralysed in traffic
The same time
Every day
Morning
Evening
Crazy.

So I taste this thing called life,
Sometimes sweet and sometimes bitter,
I swallow it nonetheless,
And hunger for more,
Devouring it like the lioness
Victorious in her hunt;
And for this I glory,
For this I suffer.

I know that opposites attract,
And one day you will come for me,
Releasing me as never before,
And I will welcome your attentions,
Willingly I will surrender to you,

After all, finally, I belong to you;
But what you take away,
Cannot be what you desire,
For you are attracted just as much,

To how my hair catches the sunlight,

and is messed by the wind,

By how I laugh, and scream,
You yearn to ride the rollercoaster
To ride beside me, just once;
But that ride is only for me,
As my death is only for you.