Heft

Balance may never be explained
in a constant way.
Sentences have periods,
stories are many series of scenes
that never end.

When we insist on showing someone else,
the way it is, the way we see it
changes inevitably
somewhere between pointing and looking.

There is always more to see.
Obviously,
there is no way to stay
in equilibrium for an eternity.

At least we both must hold on
to something
that seems worth
mentioning.


Artwork by Édouard Vuillard (1868-1940) in the [Public domain].

The hanging of a self-portrait

The man tells the same story,
since it is all he can do.
Demanding to be the center of attention,
he hordes the space under the illumination
of a sole recessed light.

Tells the same stories over and over
to all passing faces and yet
always forgets some very fine lines-

Contrasts come out, where
he smirks slightly,
unbothered by the crackling
of sky overhead, he only looks a-
Head.

Robed in velvet red,
a coat he swore he never wore,
he has positioned his
arms for the ideal pose to portray
of strength and endurance.

The distant family gazes at the portrait
Through centuries and canvases
but sees nothing captivating or similar.
The same (his)stories,
making his image stretched
and one sided.

A life made good-
despite the gilt and frame
that flaunts its ornate opinion
of self.
He was once
a handsome man,
despite the way he looked

at them.

Painting by Albrecht Dürer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Characters

One time

We liked stories, truth be told.

Stories about us, about our stories...

And there were so many stories still to be told

in every narrow nook and at the basin of every crevice

Lie motive inside metallic locks, under Persian rugs, in-

between sheetrock walls-

And above all

shapeshifting cumulous clouds-

faces.

There were too many to notice such

sweeping similarities so we let them be

Different, like wings.

One time these stories

entertained us with fancy, charmed us

in emulating everyday escapades.

We recognized someone’s doomed desires

before the ending, catching on, 

like memory and water,

taking its sweet time

reflecting.

One time

We told stories to each other

of the way it was, of the way it will be-

Presenting only the preferred possibilities,

such as happy endings for the good guy or our hero's.

One time we wrote stories

because we could make it up, 

narrating truths seamlessly

into lovely little lives, dressed ghosts under bleached pulp with black eye liner-

awaiting a familiar revival in mirrored eyes.

The stories one time

saved us from the villains, by showing us

what they look like 

as potential suspects-

This way,

we don't step in glass

or cast more curses upon 

one fairys' long, winding tail.

Painting By George Inness (Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Page sniffers

There was a time when-
They will say...

From what remains-
We can tell-
Stories.
Ago.

In this time,
Through these
They found each other &
This is how by smell...
Through the ages
sealed between the pages
Vials of hermetic memory...

Though this does not last-
the notes have all but died-
Faintly, there is a sense
only Paper People
remember Reading.


Painting by Paul Cézanne [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Perso in la biblioteca Umbertos

Leave a light on
so the bugs don't eat the books.
The grandfather clock
must be wound
so our heart keeps ticking.
Stock up on the stories
so you have many maps
and mythos to go.
The journey keeps us young,
but the last leg catches up...
You've lost me-
many times
in the labyrinth of
your enigmatic fantastic
winding fallacious folios
that make ones head spin-
Are they books or bottles
with memories as mixed
messages?
Translation tends to
misinterpret and blurs,
slurs, like tears on ink
there's a leak, (I think)
Ahh-look up-
always-the sky
knows how to read infinity
as long as your words remain
contained and
eternally with me,
I'll be happily lost in the library.


Image of painting By Unknown Dutch Master (c.1628) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.