Becoming Her

As if becoming the infant he was once
standing by the thick glass upon a stage
watching the destiny playing down for him
he throws his soul upon the crystal wall.

His eyes have turned to a dreamy white
visions take shape on the membrane of his mind
visited by the eternal elements of his desire
memories made of the lights of living days.

Odd union of particles speeding through space
as if he was made of so many fiery flies
an aura twirls against the transparent citadel
soon to cross over into another realm.

So familiar with the essence he seeks
his might pushes through to the other side
born again into the fancy he shares
he becomes her within the womb they share.

Her Daddy’s Old Mirror

The glass may not lie
No more than another image
Of what she may want to see
In the old two-way mirror of her will.

Yesterday yet she played in the dark room
Of past days on the stage of her theater
Now strewn with particles of memories
In the midst of spider webs and dusty mounds.

A single swipe of the palm and a rebirth
The smile frozen on the icy plane remains
Smooth upon the pearly shroud of younger days
Ready to play once again and forever more.

There she shed the scars time gifted her
star in the infinite acts of the life she rehearses
day after day lines fall upon the boards
telling the story of a little girl and her bloody knees.

Gazes may fall upon the tale imagined by the onlooker
Powerless to shun the endless giggles in her breast
The oval reflection of her soul agrees
It is time again to play hopscotch on the pavement.

Little Woman

She is ten, and she is thirteen again
all at once goddess and simple girl
mistress of the universe and meek to the realm
she smiles.

She forgets the elegance of the night dance
preferring the raggedy cloth of her youth
when she fell again searching
for golf balls.

Looking to the less distant setting of a perfect star
she giggles for a reason she does not fathom
perhaps an unseen spirit brushed her rosy self
upon a cheek.

She plays with the worn-out dolls of old
in fictions rehearsed so many times on stage
when she was ten, and then thirteen again
and her heart tickled.

Statuesque and so gentle she has forgotten her shadow
hovering over the world she alone owns
perhaps it is not hers after all as she eyes the heavens
and closes her eyes.

Once she grew up just to awaken in a strange room
filled with the choir of a cacophonic multitude
she did try the thing of grown-ups called a couple
with fading memories.

She considers the details of dangerous things
but she cannot wait to trip back into a real moment
when a true sort of life will begin at last
at ten and then thirteen again.


The scream has the energy of silence
when he cannot make the sound of despair
calling out to a savior in densest fog.

A hurricane has frozen nearby into a funnel
conduit to nowhere from unknown locales
no way out, no way in, he stands in time.

Contracting, expanding as a beating heart
it slows almost unperceived to a halt
before vanishing into quanta of infinite stars.

Oblivious to a future soon to be forgotten
scarecrow of memories into sullen dust
the world around becomes shut off to his senses.

The pain remains his only earthly treasure
cherished into realms of desire for the object
locked fiercely within the walls of a dying clock.

She is deaf to the wordless plea as away
she glides into a blind space of consciousness
only sensing a slight tingle as he passes.

The Old Place

The old city is no more
now buried under cartoons.

How sad it is
to know of the genius gone.

In the cemeteries
I hear many of the famed ones,
rolling and tossing in their ground.

The old city is no more
but a pile of rusty memories
reaped by wars and riots
and the latest obscenities.

It is no more, and they weep,
as I find their ghosts with each step.

The old city has gone,
and only the carcasses
of a glory frozen in another time
corpse of what once was,
only that remains.

But make no mistake,
If the old city is gone,
as I walk its streets today
I am surrounded by
the ghosts of those
who sired our time.

Today, as they mourn an old friend,
we must apologize for humanity
to the lost, the forgotten,
for having let you down.

Now we know why
Papa you could no longer bear it!
Papa, you could have sired Paris.