strange chroma

 
For lie to all, & to each, tell a little truth.

it was her cool, steady gaze, I suppose.
the strange chroma of her eyes  –
a blue-gray mix you won’t find in the sky;
you’ll see it in the rain.

a woman sits at the bar, appraising her marauder lips in the
backdrop glass; red like a red red rose. she displays herself as
if she’s available…  asking for it. but every dame has a boyfriend.
or a girlfriend.

it’s the allure of the clandestine, the sordid, the stranger.
sex is the crime of the lonely & the brave.

we figured to dance the sins of flesh & fantasy. we’d rendezvous in
3D illusions; we made a dowry of motel rooms. & after I fall into the
deep, muddy river of love, she is gone. caught a train to the somewhere
of a nowhere, unmapped. silent phones & trashed love letters.

so I caress my sorrow, close to my shot glass, & compose a tragic
romance. about her. about her eyes & her forbidden heart. the shadow
of an ode, the echo of a sonnet.  a man calls himself a poet, but it’s
the whiskey that makes the poem, I’m just along for the ride.

after a few drinks, the blues cast the industrious net of melancholy over
me. I get pensive. petulant. but it’s not enough to be drunk & angry,
you have to use it, like a loaded gun.
make a great mistake.

so I light the tip of a twisted poem
and burn down the night,
while my heart keeps the philosophy
of a one-night stand on lockdown:

for lie to all, & to each,
tell a little truth…


(Art: Pedro Sanz)