Four Poems (April 24, 2009. New Moon. Issue 4)

through the eye

clutching her skin, clothes trashed to the floor--
she's been lucky as many times as late, lending a
roseate glow to her thoughts
as her breath
curls--tight,
unfurls--slight;
fetal cares forgotten

vile public secrets

I have unmasked my peers, and underneath
their plain faces and honest smiles lie
pointed heads like teeth, and staring eyes,
bone white bodies inscribed with runes
and they're coming for me now.

In the black of night all color has been drained.
Perspective trips my brain and I cannot say
if I am cast out or swallowed in; if the mist
that sweats upon me is fetid breath or roiling bile,
where to run for safety.

And as I stand uncertain, I can feel shadows 
block my eyes and the mist begin to burn 
with hatred; and I stand in form, no longer trapped--
shoulder brushes shoulder as we sway 
with thoughts of death

ballerina in the cell

she wears the clothes they toss her,
scraps that beg for meaning: a mask
that saw one ball too many, a ballerina
outfit gay and spotless, bright against
the dungeon walls that keep her from escaping--

she wears their clothes most humbly,
trains with diligent sincerity: a mask
beneath their bemused care.

assassins always come in twos, and 
though they stopped her mother--
she will be ready for the moment
that they no longer fear her.

time and clocks

The whitewashed wall with scribbled philosophy
spawns conversation that enlivens an
otherwise dull day--the existence of time
created by the observer but fought on principle--
information to be observed, discussed, and
sussed. In the deli, time's lack of existence
destroys currency, economy, and scale. Relativity
loses meaning, and the lunch hour is gone
before we know it.

Returning to work, one last glimpse of the graffiti
haunts us through the afternoon,
compelling furtive glances to the clock
and ponderances on time.

The next day
the message has been supplanted
by a fresh coat of wash.