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.
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.
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.
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