Gone to the Hair, Bear, Rabbit and Fox

Who am I, to sojourn inside?

This kindly place, all of stone,

Here, where we had written to exchange,

Me for the first time, her to judge.

Both ready for the gallow plunge.

In this place, we are guarded, 

duelists ready, cocked

hammers prepared to fly,

Enough time to laugh behind a smile,

While expecting to see London Ivy creeping,

threading tendrils around flailing hearts.

I stood, thereby wishing to sit afloor.

Watching her first, calculated movements

the steady clack of polished nail,

high upon the card, lips lightly pursed:

 

Slicing fingertips on loose parchment, giggling

Yet underscored with a haughty grin

Oh yes, those thirty white horses

All in a line and cooing.

Deftly ready to consume. 

 

Oh, she has partaken once before,

this ordering game.

Her poison a sitting, ready smile,

and today her sign is gin.

Ahh, dearest dank apothecary shop

Whose guts contain we two,

exchanging soft touches between drinks

We provide a front to guarded minds

Long glances over dark thoughts and lauded riddles,

 

I glanced up upon that first sip, 
Expecting delicate curves to form: fangs?

Instead finding small cuts to wary knees

Following traceries of silk ‘kerchifs up

aptly ready for loose, or nearly empty throats

Her eyes, a hazel circling dilated darkness

Teeth gnawed, some dulled,

At least five glowing brightly

spiked arrows: when will they call out?

Are they ready to gnaw my breast and hump?

Her choice being me, mine being spiked.

A booze, not of liquid exchanges

But neither of love or form held close.

Only enough to scent her smile.

Here, I am a ravine, carved in dank clay

Little rivulets of blood filling,

A sweat-stain worthy of rising,

There, she drinks long, and heartily

Of a soul ready to give and be receiven

I am hers, for now, 

A sound to be crunched beneath boot-heels

Fuzzy, slipping some on the quality of the wine.

Giving, now gone.

Follow us then, down.

Into the mud of my mind.

We will lie.

Sewn of Discord

I go to seize the day,

Wander, to saunter these whetted streets

For the sky has closed, clasped upon another eve.

But HARK, the bar light - it blinks, beckons, beckons.

And what is this?

A reproduction of the world, and other minuscule fates

Contained here on the stage, oh the lies, the shine

My mind, it shudders, shudders.

Down along the tables, thick

The long, the wood; the many tales at once beheld

Upon a surface, such as a man can make

Capture, capture it, still.

While I sit here, we all watch

A peddling girl called, a wolfhound hungry john’s smells,

Dancing round, all in green; the color of our language,

An image, this image held.

Can I capture that moment as mine?

Turn those vampire grins to something holy, holy

For this I drink; for this I seek release.

Lady, hold me, hold me.

To dull the quick mind to hold such souls

Tell me, folly, folly

I wake in the morn, another phantasm caught,

Her name was…Holly?  Molly?

Another canvas drawn, mounted.

Another brush is counted,

A hush befalls the silence:

The night it calls me, shouting.

Follow me then.

Follow me down to the swell of the mound,

Follow me now, the tell tale sound

That the gin makes.

I go today,

I go for another day

I go to coat the way,

Hollowed.

Showers Cold & Simple - M.Weisgerber

This is a movie frame, and I
am bathed in electric light.
Audiences bored at the trying drama,
but this is my life:  fast forward.

I wander at night.
Do not know where I go.
Thoroughfares transversed.
Hint of canopies under shade with midway shine;
August boughs leaning down to run
twiggy fingers through my locks.

These eyes are now unwilling or unable to rest
mostly consist of pupils, seen not, but seen enough
not reflections caught    ----    glimpsed, revered.  Held.
Oh, God, can you hear me?
Can I even hear myself?

Where now will this go?

A Song for Juno - M.Weisgerber

This story begins, when i was 64
I looked at my life, and the meaning of the world.

Cuz when I was 13, i fell in love with love,
Didn't have a clue what to do, and spent my nights alone.

When I was 15, figured out what to do!
Stayed after school, asked a girl if she would love me too.

When she was 15, she figured out what to say;
She denied my attempts, and then she went away.

So when i was 16, I fell for another girl,
she fell for a girl, then she shook my world.

Then I was 18, I again fell for love,
But love from above came and tore it up

Then again, when I hit 25 I felt so alive
I tried to drown my lungs, but dammit I survived.

When I hit 34, they told me to look for so much more,
Said date a man if you can, and be a happy lad.

When i was 35, a man did try to take my hand,
I laughed at him and said "NO WAY"

Now I'm 64, and done wishing for so much more
Found revelation of  God in the barn, then cried a lot.

Forgotten Colors - M.Weisgerber

Another red plug
here, waiting patiently
on this crisp porcelain.
Not mocking, merely resting
spooning the dust motes
and any simple bathroom grime.

It never traveled far,
sought out Ganges dreams,
or strange glances
at the back of dank bars.
A view of the waste dump,
is the best it can hope now.

It could have waited here,
knitting strange tomes
watching shapes pass, tall
heads stuck far above nimbus,
with eons passing easily
or another hour gone by.

But still it found me
quickly without camouflage,
helped entice me to burn
merely with its shape.
A Cheshire smile;
I recognized its tale.

Immediately hated short nights
of quiet trepidation,
bathing deeply within
gentle joys of discovery.
But hating more
all the shifting walls

made merely by this color,
curling like the toes,
sturdy as the girl
who existed to make it
hold it, mold it,
yank it to my floor.

What am I to do
if...when I find another?
Char its sweet end,
or feed it to the first?
Hope that it turns blue,
dies from its own stench.

Another will serve
as a reminder of more
that once we engaged in it,
and it was good.
Felt better than good,
bordering on great.

But great is not enough,
not for the red color,
red must be fed "incredible"
red must not be made aware
of mistakes allowable,
even if red errs itself.

But I am an artist,
and this color
remains as one -
many is my palate
by which to craft,
to create something bolder.

We are meant to avoid
mixture of such dense flavors,
because orange is stronger still,
something once possible from we two;
it is trauma overcome,
and thus could never be.

Light Pursestrings

This morning I reached a hand inside
and pulled out two pens from dark fathoms,
both engraved with inch long hearts
each ebony - neither from here.

Odd, as I had not thought of crafting today,
of placing fine tips to weary paper,
watching the figures twist and grow
from nothing, catch fire then return to same.

Born: hardened warriors that steal my graphite,
start to sketch themselves unnerved,
with chain-mail coated ice cream colors,
battle axes of cotton candy repute.

Or a biker clothed in mime apparel,
face covered in acrylic dusty blues accents -
an owl, unfurling its birth coverlet
sailing skies with one wing detached.

I fondle these light wrappings,
exclaim soft cries of pleasure from such joys held -
taunt noises that emerge from the inner tappings
of pen upon glass, glass held on paper.

The crinkled noises catching in brain webbing,
mutating to larger girl sounds, of laughter
echoing off noiseless kitchen floorboards,
wall cupboards reminding me where we almost made love.

I suppose these surprises are getting easier;
every sugar-bowl lid hiding another jumpy mouse,
which neither bites too assuredly or for too long
but still rests their regardless, ready to pounce.

Me, debating if I need sweetener for this morning joe,
or if I can handle the bitter blackness, necessary
to wake me after many late night rainstorms.

I Am (or more aptly, The Constant Gardner) (7/24/2012). - M.Weisgerber

When last I fell into love,
I knew all the right things
& therefore said them.

When cast out doley,
I wrote till pen & heart were dry
Nimble now, such a fractured thing beheld.

I am now content to watch,
Peer into a blue that breaks from darker water,
Or cry out, to send inner beasts back into deep wilderness:

It is a composed passion, these things.

For when I first awoke into this life,
I talked like a man, fought like a god
& doing so, watched the world burn.

Upon awakening to the shambles of a new day
I relearned how to grow quiet calm,
subtly pick at the many weeds that reared their ugly heads.

I spoke, therefore I am.
I hated, therefore I am that too.
I love now, and seek a brighter future:

That has made all the difference imaginable.