180
The world is awash with sound bytes
meant to bamboozle, hook and hoax.
treasure
rarely found in the bright light of day
sparkling on the surface like candy wrapper foil
is more inclined to dwell in the deeper strata
or out surpassing the stratosphere
or somewhere in between.
Give it the third degree,
wheedle it out,
The truth shall set you free
not Maybelline or Loreal
not the NFL or Nascar
not a swinging dick or a singing choir
not even The Text
rewritten for a thousand years,
the rewrites meant to bamboozle, hook and hoax.
Just the truth.
Un-blind the third eye
unstick the throat
and do a 180
8 x 15 degrees
Past the grey
down the corridor
through filtering glass
the authentic
heartbeat
hours of the day
celebrating
beautiful
delicious
tempting
incandescent light
timeless violet shadows
reeling
wheeling around trees
arcing
swinging about buildings
circling
looping ‘round lampposts
fountains
sparkling dancing drops of water
birds on the wing
clouds
whist, iridescent wisps
or amplifying to a green-grey crescendo.
In the persistent cubicle
fingers clack a keyboard
under the buzz of barefaced fluorescence
joy deferred.
Hush
Do not avoid looking into the face
of the hand that firmly guides you.
Even when mortars are crashing,
even when resting by a rushing river,
even when humping towards rapture,
even when locked on a dimly glowing screen
or as you watch the children
who follow behind.
Stop.
Dead in your tracks.
Grasp the hand that leads you and look.
I know why people kill.
Dark avoidance of the fear that drives them
constant diversion by the voices in their heads that,
unbeknownst to them,
are their own.
Hush.
I want you to listen.
Can you hear the outward onrushing of the expanding Universe?
Shh.
Wait for it.
The sound when it hits the limit
when it reaches the unknown
the split second when it knows
it’s gone too far
the gasp as it stalls
suspends
the pinch of that breathless moment
then
turning as blue in the face
as a baby without oxygen
it exhales and begins its inward rush.
Who is the I before I?
The I before the imprint of life?
The I before a name was given?
Look.
Poem for Lenore
Fall is as a magician’s beguiling,
All sleight of hand,
smoke and mirrors,
a vision of gold, vermillion,
copper, silver, alizarin
soothing and sure.
Guaranteed to make one pause
to take a breath of distraction from winters certainty.
The leafy kaleidoscope holds the attention
the way a tiny campfire lights one’s face,
And allays anxiety
even with darkness crowding from behind,
covering ones back like a heavy spun shawl,
filling the endless space behind ones eyes,
The fire light flicks and dances to mesmerize,
To call one away.
Roger’s Park Diner ca 1979
The firebug sits at the counter admiring the lacy black offering before him.
Knives scrape noisily across toasted white, rye, or whole wheat.
Eggs, glistening with oil, slip
dangerously close to the lip of the plate
then spiral back to center and come to an equivocal/dubious stop.
Black coffee
like crude in porcelain,
poured as an after-thought, sloshes over then
leaves imperfect rings
decorated with sugar sprinkles
on the silver speckled linoleum.
This place was meant for ochre colored plastic coats with
torn sleeves,
missing buttons,
purple sweatshirts
and two day old beards, wrinkled elbows exposed
and fingernails scratching the undersides of tables.
Everything here feels the same,
the cups, the windows, the toilet seats.
It resembles the bottom of the sea.
You can’t be certain it’s morning,
in here is a permanent state of twilight.
Life, can be detected through the antediluvian grim on the windows along one
wall.
People, buses, cars appear as brightly colored fuzzy shapes
like an old tv with a bad picture tube.
Bills and some change get tossed onto the green paper check which reads,
“Thank you“ and “Come Again“.
He smiles, reaches for a toothpick and
a book of matches.
The brown pleather seat hisses as he stands.
Pulling on his jacket,
pushing against the door
then he’s out in the cold wind of the World.
He works the toothpick with his mouth
a glance to the North,
diddly squat/nothing,.
Fingering the matchbook deep in his trouser pocket
he glances to the South,
makes the call
then takes the first step to kismet.
Angela Adele McElwain 2012
The firebug sits at the counter admiring the lacy black offering before him.
Knives scrape noisily across toasted white, rye, or whole wheat.
Eggs, glistening with oil, slip
dangerously close to the lip of the plate
then spiral back to center and come to an equivocal/dubious stop.
Black coffee
like crude in porcelain,
poured as an after-thought, sloshes over then
leaves imperfect rings
decorated with sugar sprinkles
on the silver speckled linoleum.
This place was meant for ochre colored plastic coats with
torn sleeves,
missing buttons,
purple sweatshirts
and two day old beards, wrinkled elbows exposed
and fingernails scratching the undersides of tables.
Everything here feels the same,
the cups, the windows, the toilet seats.
It resembles the bottom of the sea.
You can’t be certain it’s morning,
in here is a permanent state of twilight.
Life, can be detected through the antediluvian grim on the windows along one
wall.
People, buses, cars appear as brightly colored fuzzy shapes
like an old tv with a bad picture tube.
Bills and some change get tossed onto the green paper check which reads,
“Thank you“ and “Come Again“.
He smiles, reaches for a toothpick and
a book of matches.
The brown pleather seat hisses as he stands.
Pulling on his jacket,
pushing against the door
then he’s out in the cold wind of the World.
He works the toothpick with his mouth
a glance to the North,
diddly squat/nothing,.
Fingering the matchbook deep in his trouser pocket
he glances to the South,
makes the call
then takes the first step to kismet.
Angela Adele McElwain 2012
