Long Mezzanine Poems
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I sip compliance from a cardboard cup. Tight fine steel lines, hoist five lifelike life sized paper mache white swans. The birds seem to wing from sunlit atrium up and over an oak railing to the mezzanine. Dazzling beneath skylights, they depict ascent, flap, glide, brake and then descent towards wrought iron tables. They mimic our trek from mall entry up the escalator to feast at the food court. I sit alone at the railing, gliding swan overhead, and pretend to eye my phone. Today I secretly study humans. Food court stuffed with youthful staff, bargain hunters, transit transfers, mobility scooters, mothers, babies, bags, phones, the braggadocio of men meeting, gaunt faces of the needy. Bodies milling, streaming, yearning. The bubbling cocktail of pop rock, chit chat galore, languages, slanguages, giggles, and that one guy yelling. The carnal essence of commercial cookery. Unspoken competition for tables, at times nearly a blood sport. Each of us tiptoeing through our daily hopscotch. Only children wonder at the swans. Do mall swans search for lost wetlands, or do they strain to join us? Mythology has it that swans shift between human and avian form. The enchantment of Tchaikovsky’s swan, princess by night pirouettes into swan by day. In the wild, sudden bright white, raucous landing, huge bold birds calling, splashing power and grace. I wish we each burst into swan. But flight feathers do not anchor to my bones, nor contour feathers pierce my skin. I vow to visit the wild ones, and leave.
published in "Unbroken" 2025
Today my thoughts have moved
To a higher altitude.
Where the air is crisp and thin,
Providing a fresh attitude.
The mountainous terrain blends
Both beauty and grace.
While reaching to the heavens,
And all that open space.
Even as the climb moves forward,
There's awareness of a fall.
Since limits are ever-present, and
One slip can hit the wall.
Now along with lessened pressure,
Comes the struggle for more air.
Here time must give-in to more oxygen,
Removing any lingering despair.
When the zenith is finally come upon,
And no further heights can be seen.
A pause to reflect and view the summit,
Comes from Mother Nature's mezzanine.
I don’t usually talk about a club, in the club
but last night I was chattering breathlessly, at midnight,
about how right the club had gotten its atmosphere.
I’m never quite sure, design-wise, what’s ‘now’ and what’s retro nuance.
My bf Peter said the design was “Warholism,” whatever THAT is.
I gave him a puzzled look and he said. “The Factory?” Like that meant something.
Why is he so much smarter than me? It’s unjust.
Lets wax poetically..
The drinks were priced like artifacts
but we ordered them like essentials.
A club is a machine calibrated for pleasure.
Similar to real life, but with much better lighting
plus their decors are tuned to optimistic escapism.
Last night’s club, was all chrome and blue light
making us feel like we were on a spaceflight
Clubs hit escape velocity around midnight
when everyone’s having their own garish moment
- crowds roll in on the vibe, and things warm up.
When moving on the floor started to feel like work
we escaped the ordinary for the cooler mezzanine
We arrived as our drinks were being freshened up
I tip well and they’re happy to manage my money
It was a good thing. Our generation doesn’t know
how to wait without looking like we’re waiting.
BTW: Don’t you LOVE anti-spiking drink covers?! #justbrilliant
ok, now it’s Saturday morning
My head is pounding, as if someone were striking it,
every thirty seconds or so, with a timpani malot.
“That was the LAST time..” I moan, but I was being ironic.
I know it’s not true, Peter knows it’s not true, I know, he knows,
I know it’s not true - but he gets my meaning - that’s irony.
Peter never seems to have a hangover and at times it pisses me off.
“How do you feel,” I ask him in my smallest voice - lest I awake the timpanist.
“Fine,” he says, with an enjoyable sense of righteousness.
He sips his coffee as if he has not a care.
“You’re only fine because your head is empty,” I lash out in a whisper.
.
.
A song for this:
Can't Tame Her by Zara Larsson
Tears by Sabrina Carpenter [E]
.
[E] = Explicit lyrics
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pAwoxOpnN7g
Unceasing peace and calm arriving on the wings of twilight
brushed hymns quietly strung on golden harps by heaven's
mezzanine:
Plush dreams luxurious and velvety, such as the evening light
yielding and pliable, like your breath, breathing gauzy inhales
and exhales, on its own accord...
Interplanetary steps taken through the milky way
everyone is welcome here in this paradise of old, we are inlay
to the falling brooks and waterfall emotions , we are humans
soaring higher then the eye can see
Like the eagle and the hawk, we too can perch on new heights
lay down and caress the lofty mountains and the green green grass
We can fly like the butterfly nice and slow setting the skies aglow
We are amateurs of life, newborn souls babies in the milk of mother
regardless of our age, here we are eternally taken by the beauty
and the splendor that revives us, time and time again.
Begin your journey with one step and see where it takes you
my friend, Namaste !
I sit under the trees
Later
My neighbor said
“I enjoyed watching you pray.”
“What do you mean?”
“You sat there so still
Head tilted up for a very long time.”
“I suppose so
But actually I was entranced
By the crowns of the Oaks sweeping the sky
And that Cooper’s Hawk nest along for the ride
Swaying basket beneath a parachute
“A Fledgling teetering on the edge
“Doesn’t fly at first
Thinks
Then falls head first
“Batting tree trunks
Talons raking the bark
Crushing the branches in a humiliating commotion
Leaves ripped away
“Tumbling upside down
Wings hoisted half way to the planet
Then like magic
The bird fastens
To something close to the harness of an orbit
“Latches upright to a branch
Shakes its head
Furrows its brow
Eyes narrow to stirrings on the green mezzanine
Below
“Just like that
A Hawk reincarnated by hunger.”
“But I saw your hands clasped.” She says.
“Instincts, I guess.”
Dan's on the mezzanine
asking where the mayor lives
I'm on the dole line,
wondrin bout conservatives
The man with the leg cramps
boot camps wheel clamps
says they cut his food stamps.
Look out son,
he’s packin a gun:
God knows why
Pat Boone, full moon
someone's gonna die soon.
Del's on welfare,
Donald Trump is real pissed:
give 'em all health care?
What are we? Socialists?
Thinks I'm Harry Lime:
street crime, sub-prime,
now you're working part-time.
Look out boy,
you're only a goy:
don't revere teachers,
don't obey no preachers.
Jen's on Fox News
talkin bout the bank crash
wanna get some real views?
What about the trailer trash?
Read about Goldilocks
Botox bobbysocks
modelled by Amanda Knox.
Look out, Joe,
you're spoiling the show.
Don't watch features,
don't dance in the bleachers.
Get hired, get fired,
get rich, get stitched,
get tired, get wired,
get hitched, get ditched.
They got the cops at backstop,
Al Gore keeping score
'tween the Poors
and Dirt-Poors,
'tween the Haves
and Have-Mores.
John Wayne's vanished.
He's off to learn Spanish.
Trumpets sound out, bells of Christmas ring
beneath a silent sky of linear silver light
a reindeer with antlers of solid gold
prancing in the snow,
the world is all aglow!
Taffeta gowns brushing a mezzanine heaven
Seraphim Angels winged in fashioned glass
lost in a tempura of time and space
Christmassing stars of gorgeous gleam !
Whispers of Christmas a murmur of Grace
above the heavens a choir of Angels sing
"Hosanna To The King of Kings"
let us serve Him until the end of time.
Triskaidekaphobia
And so, you have “Triskaidekaphobia” on your mind.
Indeed, fear of the Number “13” does have a real and
a certain palpable feel and meaning for people who
harbor this particular phobia and carry it with them in
their lives. With triskaidekaphobia, superstitions abound
regardless of any rational explanations that are proffered
in western societies. The history of mankind is rife with
superstitions and old wives’ tales dating back through
the centuries as human societies grew and evolved over
time and became more or less sophisticated by their own
enculturation processes.
Nevertheless, next time you’re on an elevator you may
notice that a button for a “Thirteenth Floor,” doesn’t
exist, and that Floor 12 progresses to Floor 14. And,
with a “Floor 13” being non-existent, this may give a
person, a pause for a moment, with a certain mental
flavor of the phantasmal aura about everything that
surrounds a “Floor 13” existing and being listed on the
elevator’s button-panel selections—let alone even being
mentioned at all.
Sometimes the slack in this oddity of the floor numbers
may be deflected with a listing for the “Mezzanine” that
is an intermediate second floor that’s open to the ground
floor by a stairwell. It’s also worth mentioning that many
old hotels in the past that still exist today were built with
the inclusion of a “Thirteenth Floor.”
What to do? Do nothing. “Triskaidekaphobia” will exist
regardless, and this phobia, among many others, will help
to keep psychiatrists employed, occupied, and busy with
all of their various professional endeavors.
When in doubt, just remember that the “Loch Ness Monster,”
a la “Nessie,” does, in fact, really exist. And, never push that
button for that “Thirteenth Floor,” or else . . . !
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
November 29, 2018 (Narrative)