Sometimes my words roll out in waves

like grass that's kissed by wind from cranes

who rise up on a sheet of wind...

Rhymes come to bless me on a whim...

On other days I must go out

into the ravenous array,

and hunt my dinner down with tools,

and weapons of personal choosing...

You feel it on the air sometimes

just how the world gets with it's hoarding...

Will we approach this march of dimes,

or die beneath boarded up planks?...

I'm not sure which will be our fate,

I just know that I feel a pulse,

and there is something new and sure

emerging from the dewy blades...

Sometimes my words roll out in waves

like grass that's kissed by wind from cranes

who rise up on a sheet of wind...

Rhymes come to bless me on a whim...

I feel the sickly sweet descent

of falling leaves where blow-hards puff

themselves into a royal knot...

Their eyes bulge wide where horses trot,

and bandits of the world press on,

while those in blind-folds pay the price...

I know that life continues off

the map that some deluded prince

dreamed up to keep a good man down...

Gets hard to flail or move around...

...But maybe in this time of trials

where famine reigns, and truth gets filed

under the guise of worn out shoes

we'll find lost life midst shades of blue.

©

9/4/21

Bunny Villaire

I tell myself I get sick it’s okay I go to the hospital I get better

needles seeking tragedy

tattoos that hide

under sleeves

blood rotten and bittersweet

ciao to the veins laced with low dopamine

I find comfort

In the rhythm of solitude

Soothing myself

In the absence of your lead

My toes

No longer contending with your ego

I pretended they are not there,

the voices speak,

the tortured , joyous murmurs,

giving advice,

like they know anything,

berating,

like it's their business,

complaining,

like it's my fault, or that i can help,

mocking,

like i'm not used to it.

dealing with the voices,

i get a thick skin,

which i groom and shed,

as season and humidity require.

the voices don't learn,

the voices don't really care,

so i told them to get lost,

gave them all Fs, and a citation.

see how their mommies,

deal with the disciplinary quagmire.

The women

out of place

in a black dress with a neck line too low

revealing a décolletage

crumpled like a rejected manuscript

her greeting

her way of leaving the impression

she had recently summered in Venice.

Those people

whispering as she passed

because they found her

incredibly

seductive

influential

or both

as she believed

her mind not being what it used to.

She was neither.

The days of fire and fury lay behind me. My only respite: the geometric pane of glass on my wall. Many regard it as a cheap accessory, and give it neither the attentions it deserves nor accredit it its true value and worth. Maybe a quick glance, the briefest of wipedowns when dusty or flecked, no financial investment beyond the lowest possible.

Mine is the pride of my possessions.

Mine has become a portal to a better place.

i no longer belong here.

This dreary place, sagged and ragged, cast in faded hues, worn like the soles of a marathon runner. Its tentacles have long drooped lifelessly, most times i cannot find them at all. What a powerful hold they exerted upon me in earlier times! When our love was a flaming beacon atop an erupting volcano, when surprise and joy fueled magic; my eyes flew open every morning, eager to inhale everything the day had in store.

Today i watched her walk down the hall, shoulders hung once again after a fight. One side of her underwear crept halfway up her right cheek. There was a time long ago when the image might have moved something in me, it remains now yet another dead tentacle.

The sounds of my children’s voices, once gurgling with laughter and promise, are now poisoned by the accusing aggression of teenagerhood. If they only guessed, now, the thoughts that regularly pulse between my ears.

i must leave!

The alternatives are too terrible, and certain.

i see myself somewhere else, long gone, inside my gleaming mirror. The tending of my appearance has become a religious activity-one must pay the fare somehow. No novice of any sect went about his office with more care or attention to detail. My eyes have begun to see microscopically, my face has become disinfected from any hint of life. Laser surgery helped, but these rituals, performed twice daily before and after the rise and setting of the sun, did the yeoman’s work. No longer am i someone to be looked over. No longer will my voice go unheard. i count, but only because i have a secret.

The person i was is no more. It was an insect upon this glass surface i washed away with the wipers at my disposal: cremes, washes, eyebrow pluckers, perfumes, colognes, dabs of make-up, hair gel, nasal clippers, hair clippers, spray tans, and hundreds of pictures i used for inspiration. Scarves and hats, the right pair of glasses. Now all of my childhood memories belong in someone else’s scrapbook-at times i do not recognize the person in the memories i see. Is it i, or merely an actor in some plot?

On the good side, i can no longer say or do anything offensive. No one will ever accuse me of being a racist, misogynistic, or committing anything untoward. There are no sharp corners or unfiled edges of my persona. i grew up with opinions and ideas-i have none of these anymore. They are of no value to anyone or to myself. i am now nice. i merely am-i eat food, i drink water, and await my next ritual before this holy altar.

On the down side, i only count because i no longer have a voice of my own.

Somewhere on the other side of that mirror, i assume, lay the person i could have been, its heart gnawed away, its blood drained, its teeth and fingerprints smashed and cut away, shaved completely bald. Perhaps it is even scorched beyond recognition–there is an empty matchbook on my night table.

He isn’t missing much.

To ciao

Or not to ciao?

Across Italy, you’ll hear a greeting

That rhymes with chow and is handy

To say hi or bye, nothing fancy.

But don’t overuse ciao like candy,

Because of the word’s true meaning.

A Venetian phrase is the root:

Literally: “I am your slave”

Comes from when Venice ruled Slavs

From the cradle to the grave

In the country shaped like a boot.

Morphing into “at your service”

And said informally nowadays

To pals and peers in Italia,

The meaning from its origin strays

But ciao still makes some folks nervous.

Especially when a stranger

Says ciao it may seem impolite

To an older Italian who might

Consider the greeting a blight

So, tourists, weigh the greeting danger.

To ciao

Or not to ciao?

Visitors, you have some options:

Salve works anytime to say hello

Buongiorno says bye and hello

Arrivederci means bye, not hello

In short, use ciao with caution

A kitten came to visit me

Fur an ebon clarinet

Eyes silver, knowing, key

Its meek mewl a minuet

Each night it came,

Times three

The same

You see

Tiny head slipped under

A still locked door

Along the floor

Paws soft,

Piercing claws unsheathed

My world pulled asunder

My heart tearing thunder

It climbed the blanket

Of my bed

It brought hope

I thought it said

Or the rope

Of playful trinket

A junket

A journey

Or was it warring

With fate

As I lay snoring

At any rate

Life was boring

Safe

Awake

I ponder portent

Should I take

A chance

Be transformed

Or be content

To live stale

Stagnant

Frozen.

Honey spills over parted lips and navy-blue waves crash against dark sand, sending a spray of sea salt like glass beads that shudder the air before condensing at the corners of your closed eyelids.

The sea is mourning tonight and our cupped hands do little to protect the golden flame of the candle between us. It shudders in a wind we cannot feel as the gulls hang motionless far above, as if by threads.

We know this place is not meant for us, not meant for fragile vessels of blood and bone, but as the sky comes crashing down we can only lay back, honey-lips open in something between a sob and a scream though no sound escapes them, hands intertwined as our eyes glaze over.