The First Door On the Left

You enter the room where you child self dreamed.
Your dreams have changed but the room has not

The water-stained ceiling has not forgotten how your
salt-caked eyes stared wildly up at its jowls, dazed by
what the day had dealt you, oh so ready to retreat into
your ever expanding skull.

Those walls, those taciturn aunts and uncles, recall
your mirthful mouth making merry after August
birthday thrills and encounters with middle school
Rudy Valentinos.

The pre-Instagram picture window, alone now as it
was then, reflects on who you were, who you are, and
who you may yet become.

You leave the room where your child self dreamed.
The room has changed but your dreams have not.

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The Curtain Conquers

Like an eggshell scrim floating in
front of a leading lady lacquered
in lace, time has blinded her eyes,
shielding hopes of who she might
become from two weathered
apatite irises that shine no more.

Other women, tenacious women,
would rip that flimsy facade from
the rafters, revealing the long
hidden ingenue in all her glory.

But for her, the curtain conquers.

Marrow and Memoirs

You don’t know who you are until
everyone leaves you.

Staring for hours at a wall of sand,
deciding what is light and what is
shadow, brings everything into focus
and who you were before you donned
the masks that have made your life,
emerges between the hours of restiveness
and reason.

Hunger will shape one’s days in ways
that can humble even the most jaded
and faded of homo sapiens; eyes that
fumbled only for tomorrow begin to
hunt thirstily for that which will sustain
marrow and memoirs for ages to come.

You don’t know who you are until
everyone leaves you.

forever edited

Decay of the visible is difficult enough but the
assassination of the unseen is a far greater crime.
Amazing transformations are taking place every day and
already, we have lost precious and valuable slivers of
energy that could have been used in an
alternate life.  The disintegration of our histories is a
puzzle that we may never be able to solve.
Symbolic objects pass through weathered hands, forever
edited for meaning by time’s ever-changing whims.

she could not say

An august owl, silent as sycamore, perched
on lofty marble throne just might, if not napping,
catch creatures of carelessness with its divine
hatchlings.  Protected by tripart shields, they
detect everything which moves under moonshine.

But, Maude saw nothing behind the light–bright
sun out of synch–on that secret sleeping
road.  Whether man or monster came her way,
she could not say.

The Tranquil Tiger

Rippling crystal becomes bistered and soiled,
staining learned thumbs with mud from this noble
land.  Immature garnet tresses lay slumped beside
woven palm leaf, gasping for air with the fire of our
founder on their faces.  They will never know the
power of their ancestors, those heaven sent messengers
with twisted fingers, blighted by warts, but which smell
of tropical winds.  One quick slice and a tiger’s hide
is exposed.  Stripped of black bands, the beast is tamed,
becoming a willing servant to body’s desires.

Apricot Moon

That droning throat buried in
his fingers, cracked and tanned as
barren earth, narrates the tenderness
of our times.

Into the wind, from hoping souls,
agile lungs stain this burning night
with the bittersweet shades
of our days.

Somewhere past midnight,
but well before dawn, silence
falls betwixt brandied cheeks,
yet our hearts wail on.