Glass

As I reflect the telescope
to look ahead for signs of hope
 through the lense, the remote near floats

 Picture on the mantle slate
memories chalice, of the past relates
held behind transparent plate

 Glazing of, the past bygones
clouded now opaque, too soon abscond
not molted drops the furnace shone

Myself in desperation seek
could mystic presence bring relief
for silver coin the cost is cheap

A gypsy, fortune tellers claim
a crystal ball, illuminate, or dark remain?
a study, tomorows hopes pertained

In the orb my destiny was cast
clouds unfold in hope and find pizzaz?
a ticket to a life that boast first class

My glass half empty or half full with cheer
the one way mirror of the seer
shows life is never crystal clear







 
 

Zoe woke and
saw herself
and Jared both
naked and hungover
due to having one too
many glasses of Jack
Daniel's Tennessee Whiskey last night.

(This is an awful poem but it helped... With what, I don't know, it just helped).

I.

Terrible, sinuous bottles. Terrible, vibrant
colors. Such shimmering, pretty lies.
Each one signifying something that will never be.
The only beauty, the sound of your name,
which would shatter and die.

II.

My sculptured, silver throat.
Or at least, crystalline gate when flooded,
threaded shards pressed inward,
hungry, their sweet, delicate teeth.
My body under blankets, Venetian,
red and purple like a baby, fevered and heaving.

They always associated you with cold.
I wanted to make you warm but it was
breathing life into the dead. Still didn’t we always,
deep inside, want to be one with that purity,
frozen in sinlessness to nothing that will answer,
bodies grown acclimated to the most beautiful cruelties.

Inside a transparent coffin, the princess sleeps.

III.

I forgot I died once before and I discovered
there was nothing to look forward to,
the road diverged but two paths led straight back
to Hades, the pain of slow afternoon light
and a frilly womb scented by lavender and stillness.

Or rather, a stopping and a starting
with no memory in between.

On the way I had grown lost, haunted by
slippers and fairies and the faintest traces of dust.
When he pressed me to the door,
a reflection exquisite, forced me to look him
in the eyes the whole way through.

IV.

If I looked into you I would see what I know,
the blotched skin, mismatched eyes,
face of an ogress.
Her heavy body that was also my body, the dancing hernia,
the word shock repeated over and over, another lovely word,
soft staccato rolling from my tongue.

I huddle in a house deplete of the world.
She has won in the end, even after the end,
fearful tyrant, beloved foe, I yearned
for her love like dew on apples.
Now fading, losing volume. Not quite a pinprick, no.
I know the treachery of the living,
I writhe with it. Loved ones unrecognizable now.
My feet cold and numb and clear as hers.

There is no love. There is only need.
There is no safety.
There is no point. There is only pointlessness.

Margot was standing
in front of her best friend Kim
in nothing but her
glasses and panties while the
friend paints a topless portrait.

It was my mother’s favorite:  
A bottle of Pepsi  
and a little bag of Planter’s peanuts  
 
She would dump the bag  
into the bottle  
after taking a few sips  
to lower its contents  
 
I don’t know why I remember  
things like this  
But always wonder  
if it’s because she’s with me  
at that particular moment  
 
A few days after cleaning
the yard from a storm  
I saw something glassy  
protruding from the mud  
 
As I dug, I realized  
it was a vintage Pepsi bottle  
the one with swirls  
introduced the year I was born:  
1959, and changed in 1978—  
the year she passed on  
( I looked it up  )  
 
There are forces greater than us  
always willing to confirm  
there is no coincidence  
and our initial thought  
to be the correct one  
 
I would say I cleaned it up  
and use it as a vase  
for the green thumb  
she bequeathed  
with her last breath  
 
But I think it’s pretty obvious  
that she never really left  
~