The night before She stands inside The bulging, burgeoning Closet. What will I be tomorrow? Pink and pearls? Grey and gold? Will she dress To impress or To cover? There is always so Much To cover. Morning rises. Shower not bath Never bath To sit so still so long In water so hot With time, Well, No. Oh, no. Just No. Not when there is The Mirror To be faced The Mirror Whose price inflates Whose toll increases With every passing year. To lift the droop Suspend the sag To fill the sallow hollows That darken and deepen With every lie To plump the lips Worn out Worn thin By each apology never made By every promise forgotten To span the crevasse The ever-widening crevasse Between who she Is And who she Claims To be. There is no pink Light enough There is no ink Dark enough To fill the expanse Of that limitless Void. Still she tries. Each morning she tries. Spackling the wrinkles With new and heavier Layers Of hypocrisy, Watching it settle Into the lines Like fine French arsenic Feeding flesh to bone. "You still got it, Sister!" She winks at the glass that withers Beneath her gaze. Then gathering the blackened bits Of her soul into a green velvet bag, She slithers behind the latest Luxury wheel, turning the key, Shaking her head, "Late again". Knowing He Waits Obvious and open Atop her slick office desk Flayed and splayed, Calling Unheeded Unheard Forsaken.
How many times we have risen from the ashes of some ruined dream of some broken promise of some word unspoken some deed undone. How many. If I could draw with other than the words that so often fail me, If I could paint with other than the ink that bleeds even here, even now, I would paint Her. I would paint The Phoenix Blue that is Us. Her wings are indigo lemniscates. Without beginning without ending they flow, vast and heavy yet light and clear, from the steady cerulean flame that is her body. Compact and strong that body is, diamond hard yet downy soft, Newborn Everlasting. Its supple spine extends to a tail of limitless measure that trembles and falls, quavers and drops in perfect time with those phospherant wings like the quavering vibrato of a coloratura just before the shattering. But silent. So silent. Not a sound rises from wing or tail as she cuts the smoke-filled air of her latest, most pain-filled Death. Until Until High aloft she opens her mouth, that crystal-sharp edge of her luminous face, that has withheld guarded swallowed so much so many for all these endless lifetimes. But no more. No More. For this time, from these ashes, she rises full-voiced sure and strong and pure. And the song she sings is Ours and Ours alone, a deafening silence to all other ears. To us she calls as never before, her throaty cry breathless, broken, ragged from the raging flames, but certain, strong, and true. A song of roads not taken of paths not chosen of endings Overcome. A song of Love. A song of Life. A song of Hope. Our Song Forever Thanks to You.
The voice rises across the cold falling gently along her brow, lolling cool atop the heart-thump bomp-de-bomp-de-bomb of a thumb-thudding bass
Splintered post cold against her naked thigh, flanneled feet warm against the breathing concrete.
For the fireworks, for the glittering, shimmering firefly works, that hang suspended in the deepening dark to mark the cloudless, blackened, frozen End of such a Year.
She knows He smiles
Though she cannot see Separated as they are By night only night so much Night Still He smiles. Its warmth, his warmth, drifting frozen over time, wraps itself warm across her cheek. And for a moment she thinks Go Go
It is enough enough Enough to call Thank You (oh, Beautiful One) to smile Happy (oh, Beloved One) to mean It to mean So much more; to be glad Together across the night That the year, this year, this wonderfulhorribleinterminable Year Is Done.
Thank you Thank You Thank You
Done Done Done.
I wrap it in my arms
Cherishing the child
I could never quite
At times I relinquish
Watch it shrink and dwindle and
to almost nothing
Then comes fear
Who am I
What am I
And so I feed it
Until it grows
Until it swells
Until it covers
Suffocating the host
In the guise of
Armor over armor
Steel over steel
Dead Blind A zone without range Empty Void We cross it each morning Cursing and laughing We wait Calmly Patiently For life to Beat again And it does Always it does But there are times Other times The underworld Arises without warning Signals disappear Signs are misconstrued Codes long broken become Impenetrable And we are Lost Until From the left A light A faint Blue Pulse A dichrotic throb As though doubling Might make the difference And so it does So something does And the impasse Dissolves Fades Passes into memory Becoming nothing more than the shimmering penumbra of a once intractable Pain ©sdrogers 20 june 2015
And you For whom now I Do not even exist
Do you also No longer recall The flesh of my Arm Beneath your finger; The scent of my Neck On your pillow Each morning
What a shame to let Go All that must be let Go In order to forget only Well, only, Just Me
Jejune we were And are, perhaps, As only one can Be In middle age, The middle way, Now That all the other, So many other Paths Have crossed Too close
But I remember If you do not
That you always Lit my cigarettes Fresh From a match Not a Bic, and Never No, never From yours
I remember Laughter Lying laughter Legs linked at the knees Maddened By the charm So much charm All the charm Of one another
And are you Now, One of the unseen five Hundred? My own Tiresias Blindly watching, Wordlessly wondering, Waiting only to see if You Are the ancient love Of which I speak
No I think not No I think no
I have learned Across the years Across these years Across these oh so So many years, I have learned Just how Forgettable I am
And just how Dead The forgotten Truly are. ©sdrogers 13 june 2015
a hackneyed trite bromidic phrase we are become we are become we are be come but, oh shame on you shame on you shame on you for making me believe for working so hard at making me believe for being such A Good Liar your body full of Old Man Strength your words full of Young Man Charm yes shame shame shame on you, Papi you oh so Graven image my Death lies too beyond that line across that hill down that road you ride to ward me never so close never so far away my Death rises flat head hooded Siddhartha's Cobra an evanculous embrace cooing me close with the crook of each bend my Death is kinder than you it has promised Nothing and shall deliver All just as it did in Dachau when your fingers closed so lovingly so cravenly around my throat At the End of the Day At the End of the Day At the End of the Day