I see you

Standing outside

Myself

lately, recognizing

point of view

can only be one at a time

I'm in shock, some suggest, surreal, soberly,

listening too much watching

another image 

Of I-not noticing

She is seen. 

Startling

fear of beginnings

bearing endings 

there can be no time

to reflect. 

Painting by Grigory Soroka, 'Reflection in the mirror'c. 1850 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Reflection

A daughter is a distorted mirror
Image
of her mother
in a different light-

She reflects tiny scratches
caused by sharp objects
hurled at the surface
not hard enough
to break this concentration
of silhouette
and deformity of depth.

Only an Impression
too light
to stay in one body
fills the frame
out toward its beveled edges.

And all that cannot be contained
by Image is Imagination.

The daughter does not recognize
Herself
as better than
as more than
a mother could bear.

A swift movement of time blurs
the point
when the daughter draws her sword,
and the mother caps her pen.


Image credit: By Marcantonio Raidmondi (1480-1534), 'Justice personified' Engraving circa 1515-1525 in Public Domain. 

Proof

Don't look now
But
it is always inconvenient
to pay full attention.

The mirrors must not be clear.
Of course, there was backing
in this philosophy.

We were indifferent
as I came to discover with age
The wisdom was
quirky and quintessentially
duplicable,
making this extremely
life-like.

In fact,
there were explanations,
motives, charts, statistics and
microscopes as well as mass
spectrometers.
Facts could be made like laws.

Help is belittling, humility is compromise.

Say,
We now know
why women want pickles when pregnant.
Motherhood is mainly mammalian.

Nothing is new or novel.
It could be predicted with nearly ninety
percent accuracy,
Those who would be beaten and abused,
were confined, resigned to their situation,
like all atoms and half-lives.

It was worth looking around
if only to see
how natural it is for us
to reflect and blind,
bend and squint
without ever reaching a definitive conclusion.

This could be conveniently called,
Power
if only it was adopted as knowledge.



Image By Unknown photographer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Central Cancer Research (Immunology laboratory).

A big mouth is needed to swallow the multiverse

Is the multiverse unlikely, meaning unlikable to us,
because liking multiples of the same things 

seems all too impersonal?

Do you ever get the impression that we all concoct alter egos 

because these creative blends of us, 

seem more colorful, more pleasing as when we put on airs or

our Sunday best?

In the spirit of good versus evil, 

it is in the realm of dreams that that wishy-washy haze happens
to occur to us naturally, like swirls, repetitively, relevant, fractal and

speaking to us in a language we have forgotten
but makes perfect sense.

While conversely, 

the domain of fright lurks in the mulberry shade, 

she had red nectar dripping from yellow teeth,
thick with motive 

and a mare, a black unicorn
rides across the endocarpous venom of night.

Aha! By chance

what ever shape it was, a light shone on Idea, 

inhabitants of both Inverses,
yet you are the only connection
to Brilliance.

Fear- as in pure concentration on failure,

shall break focus of the glass eyed many, 

the multitudes, multitudinous, 

appear as a collective blur, 

there must be just one
that blinks...

Inside,  

i seek connection and likeness in this

one way reflection. From inside mind shells,

these walking souls on water wheels,
were still

spinning too fast
and wet behind the ears.

Painting By Alice Bailly (self-portrait, 1917) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Stages of Mutilation (ad nauseam)

Never been so sick with self I could taste it in the back of my throat

most like oysters growing algae, and this me, I scream 

and she freezes like a dumb deer on the winding dark highway.

Blindly bounding, bound and blind. Why I do mind the interruption!

My way, the high road, widening and re-routing due to corrosion.

Adult servitude has made me more wild than civilized and I despise 

the empty chit-chat, predictions, philosophy of catastrophe and empty

arguments that produce nothing I would swallow, hollow-remember?

I have not made myself clear in years, the only deep lines be

on my face. And my watch is dying, I hear it on my chest at night. Laugh lines. Elephantitis of my wet ware smearing ink and I still think it might work

with some flammable liquid. That is what we do to keep warm.

‡

Never be successful in a lifetime. Have you read any biographies lately? 

The good ones go

to better places, I think...and since I can no longer drink

myself there I swear I will 

I will

I will

I may....I mean to try to explain and this tiny truth laughs in my face,

which is why I should never stare deeply into any mirror

at those crows feet blue lies.

‡

Shut up! I have said, over and under, through and thru synapses

shot in my head. They said; put that voice in a jar, take a walk, 

don't talk to anyone about your crazy ideas, they will die-

Dead. You're crazy ideas, You Are

not the first nor the last to go unlisted, name twisted, dumbed down

held hostage, manipulated, occupied, and easily entertained 

by self-deprecation in all its bold colorless forms. Muted.

‡

You ugly. You can't. You ain't. Not gonna quit. Not worth

a spit, high and dry, my mouth tastes that salty green poison and 

I suck-

What would someone like me possibly do with dumb luck?

I already owe too much interest on borrowed intelligence, a smart curse,

and it hurts

but leaves no mark. SH. Self Harm and alarm bells, my squashed spirit yells, 

You win. I gag at my mocking grin, dripping bile down my chin

I can only hope to lose my inside voice. 

Painting by Yehuda Pen, Self Portrait Muse and with Death (1924) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Pass the looking glass

Face your fears,
is always more than
a dare,
underlying there is
the resurgence and recurrence
brought back by time and tide

Heavy in the air
inoculable preoccupation
to reflect
the return
a long lost relative redness
in the cheeks,
the submarine crystal eyes,
tiny peeks in a clouded
mirror

and there stares
back the terror of truth,
thicker than mist
draining all the same
Vain
by surface shine
in a spectacle
she sees a blind slave
whose never seen herself
anything but brave.

Painting By Tarbell, Edmund Charles (1862 - 1938) – Artist (American) Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Mirrors without reflection

Easy acceptance is a mirror
some more flattering than others
framed and hung
for anyone.

I avoid telling and tip-toe around showing
despite being told
do not believe simply
what you see...

It should be said, instead,
Believe in everything you cannot see
clearly.

The best way to tell the truth is gently.

Does anyone discuss a passing breeze?
But oh how they know about that last tornado!

You too,
have felt time jump and stretch,
but can you feel yourself slipping
on the surface-
if you catch the continental drift-
you know-
Archetypes and Adaptations are Alive.
The same story with new lines,
reflecting the ages
for anyone
that does not appear
in natural light.

A mirror is no
window.



Painting by Vilhelm Hammershøi, Interior with a mirror (1907) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

i contact

i want to be alone with you,
she said
her lips were puckered
but she made no sound.

It has been
so long
since you're looked me in the eyes
and meant it.

You've changed
is it Time

What has come
between us,

she said touching the icy mirror.




Image of portrait (color plate) By George Eastman House from Rochester, NY, United States [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.