Retrospective

Mired in retrospection
nary a decision
could be made

Wired by circumspection
never in progression
will he wade

Fired upon synapses
ignite the trangression
with a spark

Pyred within memories
candlelight suppression
now it’s dark

Gyred by apparitions
haunting reparations
end is nigh

Tired of self-reflection
willful separation
time to fly

art: The Apotheosis of Homer by Salvador Dali

Ragdoll

See the words it writes, interest piqued
What says things such as this, in this way
Tentatively, first from afar, engage this
Ragdoll
Watch it, jab it, pick it up for examination
Unabashed, no concern for ramification
Curiosity overwhelms, it’s such an unusual
Ragdoll
Does it communicate, try it, see what happens
It does! Its responses are friendly and playful
How and why does it then write that way, this
Ragdoll
Ask it some questions, it’s polite, if not evasive
Even asks them back, interest piqued
Confused, don’t know what to make of this
Ragdoll
What is it thinking, is it alive, does it think so
Does it want to be, why does it project sorrow
Toys should be easier to play with than this
Ragdoll
Dead end, time waster, hurts these wandering eyes
Bored, but there’s a pretty picture over there
Don’t need to think; it can’t feel anyway, this
Ragdoll
Use it for parts, but leave the hearts, and energy
Toss it aside, can’t be helped, can’t be bothered
A broken plaything, it’s not like all the other
Ragdolls

Broken

Stained glass, handmade
Rufescent shades in shattered blades
Red arroyo running deep
In hemoglobic homily
A broken mirror of nonpareil odium
Despise the two derisive eyes staring back
Seething sotto voce, curses and hatred
Handmade stained glass, picture putrid
Spur of the moment, spurn of the moment
Now the eyes, they number seven
In bloodshot seams and knitted brow
Baring vermillion scorn, flesh torn
The shattered mind they surround

art: broken mirror by Daver2002ua

They say he finds

Abrading his eyelids with callous frustration, was enough to draw him away from a particularly potent painting of suicidal ideation

Pain has that effect, but it shares the burden of cause, as well; whether physically or emotionally, it buries its claws quick-deep in both

Two sides of an allusive illusion eluding elucidation

They say, if you imagine being happy, with enough practice, you’ll eventually be happy; he finds happiness burdensome in the same way

So closely tied to pain, that often they become indistinguishable

They say, writing through it can excise the cancer, implanting it instead into the palimpsestic donor at hand; he finds that this is often fraught with potential infection

It may at times offer relief, however it’s a placebic solution dependent upon uncontrollable factors of outside acceptance; so it usually backfires

He doesn’t know if they say anything about ideation, though he supposes it to be frowned upon, as a form of subsistence; perhaps they’d say it’s playing with fire

He’d say that response bethink him of self-immolation; then he finds that they may have a point

…a sharp one

art: i can feel your pain by Ruth Batke

Forsaken by

Forsaken by love
Forsaken by woe
Forsaken by friend
Forsaken by foe

Forsaken by goodness
Forsaken by badness
Forsaken by sanity
Forsaken by madness

Forsaken by dream
Forsaken by living
Forsaken by nightmare
Forsaken by giving

Forsaken by everything
Forsaken by one thing
In the end I’ll be
Forsaken by nothing

-1

Of course he can see the light, who
couldn’t in its desperation to be seen
With its ebullient throes of light-waving
and self-congratulating brilliance

And while admittedly often appealing
on the surface, it is his predilection
to hold judgement, preferring to peer
into its concomitant shadow for clarity

If there’s a silver-lining to every cloud –
a banality for the positivist – then he
thinks also, there must exist a shadow with
every light and shade from each light-minded

For light needn’t a shadow to exist, yet
ever one appears when light is present;
as light fears the solitude, it relies on
the juxtaposed darkness for its adulation

So it casts its shadow of attraction, to
stave loneliness, befriending the negative
light, while slipping into his hand, the
noose for his inexorable demise

Prone to ulterior motives, false reasoning,
and capricious angles, light clusters devour
friend and foe, to be seen in a positive light
Thus, he has no choice but to be a negative one

art: equilibrist by Jodi Hugo

Ceremony

He hears her before he sees her, garrulously babbling from inside the drive-thru window

Poor decisions, or unfortunate circumstances, unceremoniously brought her to their employ; skills lost to anachrony – or having none to speak of – she had no choice, she has to live…

He supposes

She was macilent, nearly emaciated, with grey cropped hair, and wore thick-lensed bifocals, fastened to a flowered lanyard hugging her slender neck

As she carries on cheerfully, regaling her half-century younger, fellow employees with non sequiturs and minutiae, her utterances chase after them

They totter here and there, busily filling orders, perhaps being sped up by the words launched in their direction

Soft clicking and tapping percolate from the floor; every step, every stutter echoes with the noise; it’s not unpleasant, rather like the staccato of heels in an acoustical hallway

Curious, he nudges upward in his seat, venturing a quick glance, in hopes of discovering its source

Ears; dozens, upon dozens, hundreds of ears strewn across the tiles

Quite unconcerned with her surroundings, the prattle continues

The ears appear to span years of decay; a gradient from the hardened noise-makers to the soft, silent sliders

Hurried footfalls urge their accelerations and ricochets, fleshy pinballs batted through a grandiose machine

And it’s only then that he notices the glaze in the eyes of the juniors, and the smooth, uninterrupted skin on either side

The volume of her galimatias increases, or certainly at least, he’s now losing sight of the aural detachments

It’s come to this for her, and many like; metamorphosed into a beetle, surrounded by incomprehensible lions

She finds her contentment in the speaking, not in the being heard

Is this where it ends? A tristful journey into senectitude, forced to ignore being ignored? Filling empty space with sound where, of course, it can’t be heard? Feeling useful in a token role, just to make ends meet?

And as she turns her head, still verbally masticating, he sees that her glasses are lopsided, with nothing there to hold up the far side

The young man at the window startles him out of surreal cerebration, and clearly mouths the words “Have a nice day,” while handing over the order

He mouths a “You, too,” in return, before driving away with his coffee, heartbroken…

And earless