Tuesday, June 17, 2014

If She Were

is not he-who-must-not-be-named
No, she isn't
He is my fish
that dodges the light
with his deep black skin
And she, she shines
as definer of the box
life within which she contains.
And the two merge
when you see her swim away
into farther reaches of the sea
Like an old girl-friend or perhaps
the White Lady, demanding in her lips
and hips a tribute of wine and roses
if but the chance had not passed, already
and you, forgotten, or pursued to be forgotten
and wrapped up in warped old string
to be burned on the first
off-chance of spring

burned like the lie
cut from under the dog's tongue.
yes, no,
bitch that she was, will-be, is again
is not, nor ever has been
as she strings out her long line of ramps
chairs, blocks, and rings of fire
Bitch, no,
but ringmaster, yes
In this circus of bread and roses
to hoop through the jump of fire
I know not.
But when the concrete abstraction arises
will my hide singe
Or will I again sing
'you fool,' having been fooled myself
into the tempting embrace of dreams.

I know not what will buy eternity.
I know not what ails me, so.
But as I pile higher and deeper my own education
I have found this,
I have been forgotten.
And in this forgetfulness
It's like the devil convinced
the world he didn't exist
with but one maybe
and a tress of hair
brown now through the wear of time
that unlocks that forgetfulness,
not so you remember the devil,
but, have hope in yourself
that we can survive, thrive,
and not starve
OH, Great Media Star!
If I were to wish
make it this...

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