Man, Woman and Child 
 
She wears the fruit of his loom framed on her shoulders. Head rollers in her hair serve as handles for the warp and weft of his needling fingers. They thread her silken tresses while she shuttles him along to ratchet up the taut aspect of her high-strung lover. And seeing her court-appointed hand-me-down in knots and stitches as she weaves her yarn, he fast becomes unwound. 
 
 
 
 
 
                                     On a String     
 
My life's a balloon filled with the air of prior days. It rises like a ghost amidst the blue haze of memories. It floats over high-rise presumptions, and bounding off a pane of glassy rejection, gets tangled in branches of reveries before its air of confidence slowly dissipates into the noxious cocktail of smog and exhaust fumes that I implacably imbibe.
 
 
 
 
 
                                    Revision   
 
The demolition phase has run its course, emotions have been spent, and after building has begun I casually use cement to reinforce a brick or two. I smile to think of the distress I suffered weeks before when new to that dread project I would dress myself in denim workman's clothes. Recalling dust that loomed before my poetry relaxed to prose adjustments of a metaphor that seemed about to topple down, I doff my hard hat with my frown.
 
 
 

 
                                       Going Gaga  
 
I stormed their heartland, made their senses smart, when asking female ushers if the rock star was to be performing at their art museum. I'd hoped to give them aural shock as they dug in their trenches for the siege. Assailing their aesthetic barricades, I trusted they'd surrender to my liege lord's musically incendiary raids. Now 3 weeks later - basking in détente with one of them - a phalanx of her peers exult in jest that GaGa's booked, then daunt my sensibilities with martial jeers as I surrendered arms to their subversive subterfuge. Thus, managing to cross the Rubicon successfully, my conquerors march on, laughing in 2/4 quarter time.   





                                        Early Bird Taxi  
 
A bit perturbed because I made her wait, she chastens me like I'd been tardy for a date with some promenading queen. I scramble toward the back seat of her cab to catch an airplane to El Salvador. I feel as vital as a piece of meat. She shifts gears as the car careens into the highway. No safe, familiar sights adjoin my mental wilderness to lessen the stark censure of her duck-tail haircut. I just see roads unfolding toward a fate which I, dismayed, surrender to before her subtle, sensory assault.


             © Frank De Canio 2013