POETRY ATTIC: The Rearview Mirror & Perspired Voice

THE REARVIEW MIRROR

Draw curtains to
screen out the day,
so a pretend sleep
can be had on the floor
next to the mattress
of encounters that
falsify heaven.

The soil of the soul
runs dry.
Depression,
cosmically noted.
As it falls from glass towers
on high.


Nights of rainless lightning
follow heat waves of howling.
Laugh as the record plays.
Matters taken seriously,
now dead on cinema-scope screen.

Denim, loose from hunger
w/ dirtied white shirt sleeve.
Rough circles of 
shaded eyes –
nails bitten down to disaster.

No report of the secret
hours in descent.
Found under
tree branch refuge.
Anger at the loss of
fresh-faced
curiosity.

Cling and claw to preserve.
Gone w/out regards.
New generations step
on buried parts past.
They walked through
the open gates, sworn
never to imprison.

What is necessary
becomes clear –
cut away flesh.
A cold sweat explains
tight nervous grip
on the steering wheel.

Dusk on the dashboard
w/ great glow.
Drive on,
keep them in
the rear view mirror.


PERSPIRED VOICE

I.
Odors of intimacy
in the cool country.
Love amidst the rubble.

Sweat and cigarette
smoke secrete -
shadows settle between.
Weight of words
useless as I was.


Loved her perspired voice,
mouth tasted of desolation.
She looked at me always,
timing the blink of eye lashes.
I got serious when she laughed.
Think of her running up the staircase
and opening up that door.

The window is what I used.

Came to her
drunk,
babbled coercion.
A crease on cheek that I caused.
Desire spat speech
from vicious little lips.

We played a record when the urge came.
She quit therapy to embrace life again,
touch of hands to slide cigarettes.
I memorized every book and
every out of place item.


Solicited intrigue and
misplaced closeness.
Capitulate impetuous lust.
Hair found different,
strands touched the ear.
Blond locks streamed down
sides of an uneven face.
Lower down to exposed breast.

Pink pillow extenuated
the way she sat on knees.
Hands clasped between thighs.
Thin arm dangled over bedside,
confessions in the shadows.
Co-authors of something new,
kept the rights to what was mine.
Even so far down deep,
where I was buried.

Eyes jumped off hers,
over and behind oak trees.
Dark blue in existence.
Ominous glow poured
into the room, to kiss
the end of white
cloth bed.

Laid there, in a backward direction,
to return what went unsettled.
A part of us escaped.

II.
Far gone and forgotten,
look for her still.
Forcefully hold an idea
that remains pure,
a portrayal presented cross-legged.

Watch from afar,
sink into a bottomless separation.
Consorting with old pictures
and I’m burned away.


March on the cold distance
w/ purpose to be found.
Naked thoughts blended,
no question of intent.
Glimmers had, justify and dance.
Memories draw forward,
when you made perfect sense.

When was I no longer a photo,
slipped along the seam
your mirror?

// Photography: Jeff Wolfe //

No comments:

Post a Comment

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...