Three women
with the same chin,
and same ears.
The last of the three
has less likeness to the others,
her eyes will not fit
within their glancing windows.
although she is almost,
she will ever be not quite.
One, the one with the chin
as soft as a pillow
I could speak to
and she would not understand my words,
but she would nod and smile
just to please me.
The other
the one with ears that match the first,
is wise, she sits on a lotus leaf
like a scintillating frog-angel,
or a green Mona Lisa.
I could speak to her and she would nod,
repeating my words verbatim.
The last lady will be the first.
Her eyes are not quite left or right,
she is dissimilar.
My interest in her is impurely plutonic,
I listen, unseen sex pods,
pop all over her nubile body.
I never see any of this,
mind hides its picture shows.
Late at night or early,
we build a tangled love nest
out of all the same things
we can think of.
though, like that Shubert symphony
It never gets finished.
Always, some old, odd twigs
cannot be woven together,
no matter how hard we try.
Children once thrilled to brilliant musicians
Hayden and Mozart, Shubert and Shuman
My generation grew up on playboys and madmen
Hugh Hefner and Alfred E. Newman
The musicians gave brilliant exhibitions
My generation shed its inhibitions
Those who confuse Shubert with Mendelsohn,
Most likely can’t tell Mozart from Hayden.
They wander through the world without their culture on,
And cat-call Aphrodite while fishing for Poseidon.
Conspiracy theories have them nervous as ferrets.
Academic credentials are considered demerits.
They huddle in militias where their rumors bare fangs.
In a world where truth and justice are fighting for air,
A diploma’s only value is the wall on which it hangs.
Sigourney’s Perfection
A sequestered home
A wife, a husband
A doctor, the dinner guest
A gun. This the cast.
Friendly banter fallows introductions.
Lawyer husband talks shop.
Doctor politely responds to coffee,
Wife goes to kitchen, listening.
Doctor quotes a poet’s line.
Wife freezes in place.
The actress impales with her craft,
As she moves her character to vengeance.
To her bedroom for the implement.
Cold steel control, 45 realized.
Her monster sound returns.
Once young, alive with opinions.
Was arrested for her voice,
Blindfolded, tortured, by a low mock care.
Tending to wounds, only to start again.
Violations with Shubert echoing stone.
The voice in the living room.
She put the gun to his head,
Straddling his lap face close,
As if to kiss, but no, she held his head,
To her piercing eyes, being God
Before the sinner watching him
Flinch for history with no voice.
We wait for the trigger pulled,
Quite in wanting it.
Husband frantic with indecision,
Not trusting her ears for blood.
Doctor begging with denial.
Outcome?
Sigourney’s perfection.
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