Close Shave
If Time needs
a barber
we are the knife...
Cutting close
at the stubble
though our aim
may seem subtle!
...We'll turn back these
Grand Daddy hands,
with fervent amour!
...running in and out
of our own
Time loop...
Saving seconds
at the family store,
off Ol' Shaver road
We got the best
swivel seats, baby
that Papa O'Clock
ever did know!
360...
an old Cop
on the beat
was bit with
curiousity
checking out
our Mom n' Pop shop
and couldn't find
a hair misplaced,
or going out of style!
...It made him feel he
may have missed a trick,
so he headed home to bed immediately...
...He was gone by morning,
they said he had bled out
overnight...
Momma Terra's
so handy now
with her razor,
that every person smiles...
...She caught us on the
upswing with both her
steady well-versed hands
We're still slicing through
the bolts and wires
in this coffin of lost hours...
No one's watched how to freeze
the gears of time,
though they've muted it's death rattle
so the people in the stands don't know
stench of catastrophic cattle...
Rotting in this pasture field...
Aching if we all conceal
every card forevermore...
Time needs shearing...
On all fours,
begging for a righteous tanning
'fore it shambles off to die.
Twilight of the Murdered Many...
Eyes pick roses from night sky.
©
Bunny and
Mavia Villaire
8/20/20
Tumbling Face First Into the Bog
Tearing across a dewy lawn
a baby squirrel flies like lightening
up a thick monster of oak,
and evacuates another
dust-bunny sized squirrel
from his supposed claim
as the sun bleeds down through
the branches...
...I hear the disposed squirrel
chitter back at the squirrel at the top
of the tree in anger,
as the victor chitters back his way,
sounding like he's laughing,
and for some reason
my mind goes flying,
and I'm off on another tangent,
wandering deep through the wet muck,
shaking my cans together
'til this slot in time's
unstuck...
Are we biting at each other heels?...
Why do we care when a birthdate slides by,
and the presents aren't forthcoming
from the people who would matter least?...
...Or even if they do matter,
where does this expectation rise from?...
It's like poor people dressing up
to impress the rich
who never look their way,
except to say,
"Good, they're occupied..."
There's a desire for status,
to be a King of something static...
We buy the gleaming products,
or respond out of some panic
to the political agenda
of the day...
"Which side are you on?..."
Fighting for our right
to bitch into a thick fog mist!...
...If we really knew the score
would we still carry this insistence
to have all flagrant voices heard
for no clear reason but the sound...
"Hear that echo in the park?...
...It's getting louder...
Something's swelling..."
I want my head to stop it's bell,
But there's a reason I've been ringing...
Need to reach or breach a bank
where there is fewer words, I think...
...Give it a rest...
Take it to bed...
We must remove ourselves
from morass.
Hearing the squirrels chitter build
out of that bush
where it's been damned...
...To be condemned is not so bad,
as long as we have time to sit
and lick old wounds,
ponder our selves...
Whatever gives me back
my voice.
©
8/18/20
Bunny Villaire
She Walks In Confidence 12
She Walks In Confidence 12
The next day Rosie spent the day with Pamela and Robert. They were going to go visit Rupert in hospital. She asked if Naomi could come along to show them where the sights were. Her parents agreed. Robert had rented an auto to get them around town. The only car they had was a jeep and it was a stick drive.
“We will not have a manual drive in until this afternoon.” said the attendant.
“I can drive a stick but I'm too young to have a license. Why not have Rosie drive. You ought to have seen her up on the flats where the plane was stuck! ” piped up Naomi.
Robert sneered “Rosie? You are now called Rosie? My word. How quaint.”
Pamela clapped her hands saying:
“Never mind my husband the stuffed shirt. Rosie I'm very proud of you. Let's have you drive today. I know we'll have a fun day.”
Rosie all signed in for one day's driving took off out of the lot carefully. When she had driven a few miles Robert started in on the lecture of driving too fast, too close. Anything else he could think of to be a backseat pain in the arse.
They were driving in the direction of the hospital when Naomi asked Rosie to take a right turn. They were going down a bumpy dirt road.
Rosie looked at Naomi who gave her the thumbs up. They reached an open field. Two boys were there with an older jeep. Naomi spoke to them. She talked to Rosie. Rosie said yes. She asked Pamela for ten dollars. They paid the boys a total of twenty dollars.
Naomi knew the boys and they gave Pamela and Robert the drag race of their life! Pamela laughed the whole time while Robert turned white as a sheet.
Naomi thanked the boys and they took off gingerly to the hospital.
The story was repeated to Rupert who laughed so robustly the nurses came in to see if he was in any
danger.
After seeing Rupert the four went for lunch at a local outside Greek cafe that was suggested by Naomi. The food was delicious. They returned the jeep to the car rental. Robert got himself a Buick and was quite content to drive. He never again complained about Rosie's driving.
Back at Rosemary's by the Sea Robert pulled into the parking lot of the unit where they were staying.
He got out and started wiping off the car of dust.
The ladies saw Bill and Jack were busy white washing the fence at the unit next to the office.
Both men donned straw hats.
“Rosemary thinks the two of us are related to Tom Sawyer!” laughed Bill.
“Now hold still. This is so funny. Best thing I've seen all day. I have to get a picture of you two.” said Rosie.
“ I rather think the best thing I've seen all day is my husband get outmaneuvered by a woman in driving skills.”said Pamela.
The two men looked dumbfounded. Pamela said let's go sit at the table and let Rosemary and Cynthia in on our adventures of the day. Pamela told the story and embellished and exaggerated on every detail she could at the expense of her dear husband.
Saturday the men cooked lunch all day. It was Bar B Q days. They dressed in their western clothing and some locals they knew would bring their guitars and sing and play all day or their lunches.
Rosemary, Cynthia, Rosie and Naomi took to the yard sales of the day. There were plenty going on. The clothes were cheap. Rosie found some beautiful Pendleton Skirts.
“They are not outdated. Why do people get rid of these skirts. I know this one cost eighty dollars. I have one at home just like it. They are asking two dollars!”
“They want new. The old clothes are sold and out of the way so they go buy new clothes. Not as well made but new for a while. A vicious circle. I have clothes that I bought ten years ago. They are well made and when I tire of them they go in a trunk with Lavender sachets. I reuse my clothes until I tire of them.” said Rosemary.
Rosie said she did the same thing with her clothes.
“I'm going to go through some of my shoes and boots when I get back home. My special diet for gout from Cynthia has made my feet less swollen. Who knows perhaps some of those shoes at home will still fit.
I'll still show the items to Naomi for the Honeybee closet before I send them to you.” said Rosie with a big smile.
Naomi found some sheet music and the vendor said to take it all for one dollar. Naomi asked Rosie who said to grab it.
The ladies returned home happy with their purchases. Bill was happy he had put a big long rack up on top the Nomad.
She had a vivid imagination and would carry it on for the rest of her life.
©Julia A Knaake
Woman in The White Chemise
Woman in the white chemise
That the moon shown
right through
to pale skin underneath...
Flash of lightening in night,
standing up on the hill
venting to her lost God
in a clearing of woods
while a youth watched in awe...
She did not feel his eyes,
as Jeff’s fondness there grew...
He admired her bush,
and her fearlessness too,
as she swore at small stars,
not aware of the chill...
The next day in the city
She still burned up his mind,
and while out to buy books,
well just what did he find,
but the same daring woman?...
Though this time she was changed...
Wore a blue turtleneck,
and a pair of thick framed
coke bottle glasses,
like a Lioness serf...
What became of his heroine?...
Was it this stuffy store
that transformed her intentions
from an ape to a bore?...
She sat up at the desk
checking customers out,
and Jeff watched each exchange
with a permanent pout,
’til he felt eyes upon him;
so he searched for a tract,
and found several small volumes
which looked fine, and intact...
When Jeff got to the line,
He could hear something work,
like the purr of a cat,
as he looked to the clerk
that he swore just last night
had been all in a huff
dancing up a mad storm
in her skinny chemise
that exposed a fine form,
though he wasn’t assured
that this woman was her,
though her heard a faint buzz,
and smelt salt on the air...
Both her red cheeks were flushed...
And her eyes they both stared
at the ground as Jeff guessed
what at once had gone on...
His she-devil had a pulse...
Electric works in her crotch
That she’d set on ‘vibrate’
while patrons filled her pot...
While they came, and they went
She came many more times,
’til the bookstore shut up,
and at last she’d unwind...
Jeff imagined her screaming
an ecstatic cat roar,
as she played with her poodle
’til her puppy was sore.
©
8/5/20
Bunny Villaire
Edit #2
Do you trust your own process more then you’ve ever trusted another? Do you rely on your faith to survive the depths of your fear? Do you see the effects of yourself on the faces of others? Do you know how to smile even when the pain is pushing in? Do you know how to comprehend the fact you’ll never fully understand? Do you know how to accept the things you’ll never ever change? Do you know how to release the control that you’ll never quite obtain? Do you know how to be there for others more then you do for yourself? Do you know how to love them unconditionally for better or for worse? Do you feel them in your bones and in your blood even after they’re gone?
I’m learning
The Day After The One Preceding
High-rise tombs signal
last rites,
with sacred sites
far gone.
I walk this world
of the Trampled Heart...
The streetlights fall like stars
upon my pale
blueprint
of scar tissue.
To kick inside each
shrine to life
that Mother Nature
has divined...
My flesh conveyance
led me here.
Must have been shook
from a silent inbound charge!...
...as now I'm naked,
on this dock,
while cars screech past,
and interlace...
The cold, grey faces
of each box
stare straight ahead
as if they've fixed
to some illusion
so remote...
...I doubt they know
of the Centaurs' height...
The summit of His
fuzzy scalp,
or even where His true form
dwells...
Is He of Heaven, or
of...well?...
...And, what are we in this
turmoil?...
This eyesore that springs
from black sand?...
High-rise tombs signal
last rites,
with sacred sites
far gone.
I walk this world
of the Trampled Heart...
The streetlights fall like stars
upon my pale
blueprint
of scar tissue.
It is now time to pick it up,
and heave ho...
This is my quest, and
vital right
to outline villians
housed in men,
and find my way
to blessed clearings
which stars ignite, and so
do kin
who unlock charms, and
lay all bare
for Mother Moon
to lastly witness...
Lost babes of glory
drenched
beneath tall branches
who hold their tales close,
until their drawn out
by the stillness
of the night.
©
8/1/20
Bunny Villaire
Something Wild To Pour Over Ice
Crimson fire flecks my wrist...
I, an estranged prisoner of whims
is out here on a limb
with barely a cloth to cover swinging nuts and berries...
The Magician’s list of countless admirers has become
a mad riot like a swarm of bees where something sinister
floats above the night-time branches
in the woods where trees
take second chances, and remain in the
humble presence of aloof mad men...
These woods are haunted by forgotten murders,
and fractured panes of glass slide in my bleeding gaps...
...Forgive me while I ask
how and when you came to fall upon
this paralyzed state
where your knees shake, and shutter from the inside?...
The nightly winds come home to taunt you
with their fierce, unrelentless hiss
to crack a gaze into the swirling
snake-pit of pragmitism...
A pained face in the reflected blue
confesses to itself while the winding road
of worry lines cast a shadow
like a road sign lurching up
from the highway
on a night
spent horrendously
in a barely waking state...
Crimson fire flecks my wrist!...
Inhaling karma traces
from the confines of your gas chamber,
unbeknowst to none...
Your eyes close off, and you become
an iron lung...
A chimney with a drooping chalice...
A nap-sack slung over a shoulder with a helpless sway...
Tonight I burn from worlds astray that pile near a
swelling dumpster, striving in their elegant invisiblity
to be seen and heard,
or even tripped over by some stupid wasted fucking asshole;
as we miss the boat, and endless road obstructions
to return to what has long existed
’neath our toes that taste the grass with eager straws
caressing nectar of the Gods.
©
7/28/20
Bunny Villaire
Edit #2
