One and one are still one(s)

Widowed.

I know.

Defining the living

differing 

from the dead

no more

less is more

time

heals, they say, better

someday, you'll see, after

waking me from my 

apathy 

Alone

and at times 

afraid.

Arachnophobic, he was anyway

weakling for his size

entangled in his own webs

he chose to 

attach to hollow branches

before wind wakes

taking down 

all trace

of home, snare, trap, nest

I should feel blessed to be free 

of all the same hospice

And just this

One 

got away alive. 

Photo by Uwe Jelting, 2004 CC0, in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Laundering

Where does one begin
to unpack the suitcase of grief?

While it may be nice to throw it all away,
or donate these shreds,
I find it impossible to imagine
never
wearing those favorite jeans again,
the perfect bra, the stained shirt,
the holy sleeping attire-

I have no desire
to wash and fold and put away
for the 235th time
these obligatory articles.

I sense that grief starts with the smell
held between the threads
and remember distinctly
the quilt my grandmother made me
that fell apart
completely-
like family...

Long gone,
I ponder the scraps
and marvel a few moments
at all the layers we carry
and feel a sudden need
to give the shirt off my back

only to see
how I was made
myself again
woven with only
the softest flesh.



Painting by Aristarkh Lentulov (1882-1943) 'During the laundry', c. 1910, Public domain.

Ilk-some

He was the kind of guy that would say,
                   my pleasure,
and from that point forward
add interest.
He was the kind of guy that held resentment
tenderly in his palm
                   while revealing a warm smile.

A gentleman does not tell
who he calls Beautiful
                   all the time
He was a kind and gentle man it would seem
to many
too many women.

He was the kind of guy that liked to drive
and scare his passengers.
He was the go to guy,
the kind that goes to extremes.

You know the kind of passionate man
who projects his desires outward,
the type that wants women
to reflect this same desire,
his wants and those wanting him-only
at his fingertips...

On his lips
                   lies more than truth.

The kind of guy who mouths one thing
but means two,
who denies what he does not remember,
repeats what he hears,
who walks with an air
                   he thinks doubles as a smoke screen.

He is the breed of human who has been;
in love
dishonest
rebellious
covetous
oblivious
                   to having lost all trust
when he wasn't looking
and subsequently stopped earning interest.

Day after day, a toll is taken, and then again
I hear him say, I have to go
                   and yet I stay,
waiting in kind for a different guy.



Portrait by Vincent Rodes c. 1820, located in Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

First love, then night

The son

searches blindly in the thick shadows,

timid and thin, his alabaster skin 

fingering rays for warmth

where matters with heat may penetrate,

he lingered along

to feel the shapes and qualities

worth illuminating.

The son

gives off too much

light of himself,

but cools his burning core when worn

down from spinning out ideas, worries like water

for clouds.

Grey lightens the pressure of beauty in shades

of dilution.

The son

sets his gaze on the fine line,

balanced between now and then

an emerald spark, sometimes called Epiphany

flashes forward before

the embers burn themselves out

and all that fixation

loosens the belt of Venus

able to breath aloof in dusk.

The son

becomes sure

of being risen and having been 

roused, only to be caught 

in a brief glare, he spots 

glimmers of where love

lies and may be

beyond her dissolution. 

The son

will to morrow, who is

peaking at noon,

falls warmer than 

any moon who wanes

when the world was said 

to be done. 

Painting by Cornelis Lieste [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Forsaken, forsooth

Have you seen a secret? Someone  else's-specifically?

The way they fiddle with it in their pocket-It gets stuck between their

first and second molars, like poppy seeds, or opium and needs constant stroking

or protection by its caretaker who thinks-who believes-utterly, no one else can see;

the touching devotion, the precious obsession, the random gaze, sneaky smiles, daylight        
dreams late labored nights, off-kilter emotions,

or most simply the love of its keeper-buried deeper than they think any other can see.

Indulgence even has its limits.

Honesty was never a necessity for breathing easy.

Instinct can be turned down, or diverted to other carnal needs such as

survival of the keenest wills.

All the bile was meant to make you sick of yourself.

Betrayal, often thick and yellow in-consistency corrodes from the insides-
tastes like lies.

Love smothered with these dies in a shower of saliva’s acid rain. Kiss me...

for another's wish

for another

denied all this to me in sweet secrecy.

Painting by William Dyce [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Their father and his Illegitimacy

A father has a chance to live eternally;

Deeds do not die.

The man with no story passes on

rumors; Lies fall down,

Children grow up,

the man was rumored to be a father.

His story was short-lived.

Jasons Legacy:

"It was ALL about Me"

with so many me's

none will remember which Jason story-

since he's left nothing

Generously.

Painting by Albrecht Dürer, The Painters Father (1497) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The writing in dust on mirrors

They lied
              all along
They think
              they were lying
(to them-selves)
               it showed through
eventually
wear and tear:
tears and wears

feeble few
who knew
               the lies were untrue
and said
(to them-selves)
                it was naturally so,
unfolding
upholding
For now
                 yet I know
the decay
                 eating away
Bones and Memories
(buried)
Stones and Sticks
(thrown)
                  shatter glass houses
and mirrors
reflecting angel dust
                                 and cobwebs
clouding what could never become
(the whole truth)
after blowing
                   living a life
being numb,
breathing evil wind
it's too late-
                   nevermind.



Image by By עירא (own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Alter ego

Having an alter ego
is better than being schizophrenic,
clinically.
Although its still not quite right
to say it has to do with our
size shifting ego.
It could have been called
alter(nate) reality
-but that was taken by technology.
Parallel universes could work, theoretically.
This would not conflict or cross hairs,
like egos.
Who knows,
maybe being a writer is just ordinary
crazy. After all,
it's a scary thing
to think like Stephen King.
Though the average person
keeps their twisted thoughts
to themselves,
but knows how
alter(nate)ing egos
allow acceptably
multiple personalities.
And many is more than one-
identities, like secrets are sweet,
indulgent even, but one
can have too many of those
personality wise, everyone knows
those are aptly called lies.

2 Eyes 4 Beginners

I have known for a while
but feared looking
at the solid words
etched already,
I feel with my fingers,
it has already been years
since we lived
looking
together.




Image by Philip Hermogenes Calderon (1881) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.