I saw my face in your eyes and got scared

 

Lying on a cold
waterbed  mattress, this was
back in 1995 that 
he
(who I recall looked like a bearded
Kris Kristofferson in Alice
doesn't live here anymore)
had harvested a bed somewhere from
 
the  romantic seventies, the
chilled aqua pura eliciting
artless giggles with
every undulation of this
ingenious contraption, 
while the warm Veranillo night's 
milky moondew splashed 
her ambrosial breasts, 
all aquiver 
in the shaking air 
the rolling waves and 
earth cracks wide 
open swallowing the 
abundant mud soon to come -- 
Edgar Cayce was right 
about the changing of the poles his
mind  chock full of 
mulchy secrets and 
if that rascally Vanguard Dylan 
can sneeringly go
electric 
backed by members of the
Paul Butterfield Blues band
at 1965's annual
Newport Folk Festival
amidst  disappointed
boos & hisses raining down 
 and
a betrayed Pete Seeger 
 
stalking around backstage  in
a huff, 
then I can boldly 
go surreal and
wax angelic retrospection 
while honeycomb beeswax  candles
dripped a torrid trail 
slowly down the 
smoky headboard mirror 
reflecting chiaroscuro 
in his topaz eyes.



Green Onions


When yellow Tiger Lilies strike

la Guillaume Apollinaire's
flower that weeps,

unfolding polka-dots
repeating in endless
transmutations,
adaptable clones
of clones of clones
and she and he,
who had grown the lilies
in the backyard so
they could be seen
from her kitchen window
whilst washing virtuous
dishes in the old cast iron
porcelain sink
recollecting an eccentric
antiqued aunt who had
kept them around
to guard against evil,
bad spells and shoo ghosts
away or mayhap to woo
them on long lonely
afternoons her hands deep
in the mindful loam; and he and
she the venus flytrap
the start the end
the end
and noble buttons removed
by snapping jaws
the tiger's balm
staining her face
in perpetuity and the
waxy death petals
like withered Chinese
blotting paper, lingering in
a shapely point
returning
forever to infinity

then comes the inevitable one, two,
three strikes --
thus our domesticated 
passion plays out. 
Whorling noisily 
down the dirty drain, 
feathers, bones, guts, 
and all 
disappear 
with a flick 
of the disposal switch
and a big juicy check to the
divorce lawyer. 
The carpet muck 
threatens 
the empty vacuum bag 
organizational IMPLOSION 
obliterating my 
strawberry preserves  cooking
on the venerable
Wedgewood gas stove, 
searing hot fruit erupts splattering 
sweet goo down the walls. 
But it's always the
woman who cleans up
the mess, and
afternoon tea now a bust. 
Do all the pieces fit? 
I'm stuck 
in this rut 
of Prufrockian 
abstraction.

 

          Sissy Buckles