A Bitch Named Karma
The smug and self-serving
Awoke to a rude grinning wind.
Lightning slashed
Through the panoply of clouds;
Rain descending
In an illusion of hesitation.
All are accounted for
In here our reality game;
Forced to throw in their chips
At the Table of the Loser's bet;
Supernatural Hostility,
With determination and grit,
Her retribution hand played.
I'd the wiser
By putting my money,
Rather,
On Lone Ranger's Silver
Making it to the other side,
Building roof-by building roof
On a tightrope bare back ride.
Hard edged reflections of the storm light
Turn all their faces
Into electrified black and white,
Replacing the default colors,
64.
The vulnerable are convinced now
Of a clingy mad notion;
The punishing storm
Stares intensely at these punished,
Observing each movement
Of their animated panic:
Psychological defense shields up;
Clamping off
Their unwanted horror-making thoughts;
Shadow-shrouded
And sheathed in sweat
Under the cloud-plated sky,
An unseen drive
Locked in to do
Quick looks over the shoulder
Cruel setting manic repeat,
And the acceleration is perceivable.
The end of the beginning
Or the beginning of the end:
Off-color joke telling
At the workplace water-coolers;
No longer a life event;
Super bowls and Rose bowls;
Gone with the Dodo:
Santa parades and New York New Year’s:
Whisked out of human future:
Colorado time shares;
Restoring the GTO:
Events only seen now
With a nostalgic looking back.
Do metaphorical storms,
As their literal counter-parts do,
Also house the extreme dynamic?
Perfect calm center
In perfect storm shell?
A Quick In and Out
Light-headed from champagne
Sipped throughout the evening,
I rocked myself
On the thin line
Between wakefulness and dreams
With the nerve-jarring rhythm
Of player-piano music.
Suddenly!
I fell headlong into subterranean gloom
Where purple-amber shadows
Have substance.
Behind me
It was perfect featureless blackness.
In front
Stood the iron eyed ones
Holding lofty indifference
To my exasperation and puzzlement.
The smell of baby's blood
On their breath
Shocked me back
To welcomed consciousness.
Accidentally Crazy
A money-saving instant lobotomy
Falling from his sister's balcony
Left his egg
Covered in cracks
Cross-legged man
Now cross-eyed too;
Sneaking past the sleeping bouncer
While he keeps;
His fingers crossed;
Inside boots,
His toes crossed, too.
After long,
Exhausted pause,
He feigns some looks
That passed as brave;
Takes a somewhat sturdy step;
Past the long-since-been depraved;
His right foot
Lands inside the entrance;
To the I-don't-see-'em mad museum;
Flirting with what lurks within;
The half-mad,
Goth-sad,
Tabloid-worthy,
All-night underground insanity.
Moisture,
From the swaying crowd,
Slapped him hard
Like desert heat;
A perfect welcome
Greets him fast,
From the randy swarm inside;
A home away from stable home;
The inevitable reality suicide.
All Goes As Planned
Before stepping out
From the old man's crib,
Stuffed a wad of vampire money
Into hungry Levi pockets.
Soundscape change to the
Thudding of the Hotel's beats
Across the street.
Studious measures always taken
To avoid perspiration exercise,
Searching for the lure capable
Of finding acceptance as audience
To a woman's mercy seat.
Finding the right excuse
Was as futile as finding
An exorcist in the yellow pages.
Under two-thirds of an hour,
Just a horse hair's breadth
Under agreed-upon meet-up,
Not yet over the line
Where unspoken tolerance
Gives way
To a vulnerable fainting spell,
And the boyfriend's tardiness
Becomes an attention whore issue,
Our singles
Become a double,
Not a fantasy rating,
But enviable couple.
Mona's ass shook like a car bombing,
Rumbling, not trebling,
Just lots of extra bass.
In the shadow of every moment
She felt out of place;
Like eye glasses on a robot,
Full of time
But out of space.
It's been half a dozen seasons now,
That she'd settled in a valley,
Short on hope
But long on quandaries;
Quandaries,
One such being
Receiving an age ten Volvo,
Wheels playing savior
To sensible shoes
From a mild damnation
Of embarrassing half-life’s.
But half glass full
Was but half of the story.
The unmagical vehicle
Stole heart-cradled potential;
The will's heart
For a jaw-dropper
Made in the image of her autonomous,
Divine,
Desires.
The night's events
Blurred into underwhelming pittance.
The memory editor
Thought the night's film
Was on speed dial,
Snipping out bathroom breaks,
Small talk,
And the uncomfortable pauses.
This highlight survives the cut untouched;
The scene,
Having tensions tested,
Where she pulls out her breast;
The erotic-rich prelude,
Propelling our bodies' heat
To make necessary relocations,
From limbs to parts
That make the sex work;
A favored method
To embroider our affinity;
One
That always provided an out
Of this grey world,
Saturated in its tedium;
Full heaving breaths of relief,
Expelled
From smile-adorned sighs;
Our hidden Land of Yes.
