Frayed border prints paste illusion,
worn-out inks swirling bleeds,
The hauls, stareways, persuasion,
privileged balconies.
Antiquities of read reviews,
claims of a rustic quill,
to scribbled marks a light verse muse,
and forever bestill.
I hear the silence of the slams,
satirical critics,
synthetic irony exams,
stardoms paralytics.
It dominates its point to rise,
where life did emanate,
afeared facade recital trice,
timeless collaborate.
A reenactment of Bo Peep,
tough be a ruminant.
My first part, blossom -- was a sheep,
I was magnificent.
Seldom now, but once popular,
carnal Feast of Adam and Eve.
A Christian tale, if you believe,
spun, no doubt, by a gospeler.
Late December, Mystery Play –
downfall, the original sin.
Played on stage, moral tale to spin,
a day both frightening and gay.
Reenactment of solemn scene
was surely presented well-posed.
Original sin, acts exposed,
with performances now obscene.
Paradise Tree prettified strung
with roses, lit candles, and sweets.
Apples and wafers, tasty treats,
all upon the bare tree were hung.
O, Tannenbaum, I may believe
this festival, your lasting fame,
the current Christmas Tree became,
that we adorn on Christmas Eve.
The carriage arrived at the ball a few minutes fashionably late.
Which was exactly what Fairy Godmother had hoped for.
However, the carriage was empty.
The door opened and no one appeared.
Where is she? F.G. asked the footman.
He did not talk.
Neither did the driver.
Fairy Godmother was not allowed the luxury of this kind of mistake twice.
Her supervisors appeared from the ether.
First you let Snow White run off with a dwarf,
And now you have lost Cinderella.
What kind of a reenactment are you running here?
At least she got Red Riding Hood home safe, said Pinocchio.
His nose grew a foot in seconds.
That cinched the deal.
They revoked Fairy Godmother’s license.
After your butterfly alighted my dreams,
I never forgot your kiss,
You became the object of my vespers,
The refuge for my injured toiling chest.
I await your spectacle, your curtain call.
Your fragile teasing dance.
Like Groundhog Day, I predict your fluttering
Wings, the wavy flurry of your bowstrings,
Again and again.
What wonder comes next?
Are you counting down my dreams?
You are a sustained landscape
one that changes only when you smile or frown,
a fermata, an endless note
something akin to love strung-out,
pulled thin
until it vibrates at the same tone
as does love, but
not deep,
just the tension of a chord made to sing
as a vibration
upon an unvarying reiterative.
The landscape is in you,
the one holds the other in place.
it forms your stance and mien. From a distance
of years
I see you smile or frown, wave or turn your back
from my outreaching arms.
The sounding wire is continuous,
only those minor wincing fractals
upon lips,
the corners of your eyes,
the bandwidth of a memory never changing.
The landscape does not build a thing,
not a brick or a leaf just
this constriction in my throat while I echo
the atonality of a mood,
and given the small modulations, your perpetual
disengagement,
and my need for this vision to change
even so, am I kept listening
to this
ever e x t e n d i n g
minimalistic curtain-call,
a thralldom
to a reenactment that draws near to love
while rebounding away.
Reenactment!
Cocoa...passed it
Caramel...sandwich
To a night glow...hand picked
'94 the year like recent
Eye contact like the cliche say
A toe burrowing spine squeegeeing seamstress
Binding our minds suspended
An aspect you were told not to trust
She bore with the resilience of a lion's mane
A free flowing curve of thickness
Resembling the bow of an elephants's tusk
Hypnotizing all efforts to remain chaste
But an unending facial response to laughter
Granted by none other than the most high
Symbolized what felt like handcuffs
A tree toting root connection what we were together
To what we are after
And what we wanted like small flesh wounds
Faded away to the crackle of distant lightening strikes
Now those two bolts of interference
Are barely a remembrance
I can't forget...
Tambourines in the air;
Whistles and bustles in a
rhyme.
In the house of Khloe,
Melodies of the heart;
A reenactment in the farm house
of old rhythms.
Grand mother's tongue in cheek,
but she is gone;
Gone home to be with the lasses
Free from the pains of the masses.
The house of Chloe will never be the
same again.
Mirth and laughter gone through the
back door.
Enter the dragon, my mama with sternness
and a rod.
Not to be spared for our scrawny behinds
my mama.
The house of Khloe has changed course
never the same again.