On a tear,
on the brink of a new revelation.
Your body is drunk,
but the mind in yearning for some paix de l’âme*.
that old prostitute, a simulacrum of the traverse nobilitity,
is anxiously looking for another shot
You let her lead you to the labyrinth of your suppressed desires.
* paix de l’âme – (french) peace of mind.
The plush pink pig toy
was standing on the edge of the top
of the soda vending machine–
exactly in the middle.
I was looking at this toy
and the toy was looking at me
with its dull plastic eyes.
it was dusty, and had a smell of an allergy.
while I was waiting for the machine
to dispense a desired bottle,
I was thinking about the meaning of this act–
“What moved the person to do that?”,
I asked my coworker ,
“Don’t you think, Jacque, that this pig is symbolizing an idol
of our uncontrolled urges to drink something
proven to be bad for our health, yet we’re still doing it?”
“Indeed”, he replied, “it is an idol, we even put our measly coins
into the whole.”
(and he slid the quarter into the machine)
I opened the bottle and took a big gulp.
I felt like the whole pantheon of the Greek deities
were looking at me in anger and rattling their tongues
you gave me a kaleidoscope
as I perceived your detachment.
in anticipation for the next rotation
I discover a travesty of bonding
in absentia of your fascination.
represented by the tracery of this precarious scaffolding
as yet supported by Atlas tormented by arthritis
and annoyed Caryatid upset by the increased flashes.
Icarus fell from the sky
with a noise of the landing B-52 bomber.
his wings were stolen by the unholy panhandler
the moments before he regained back his consciousness.
she found him covered with wax and Albatross feces,
lying down in the puddle whistling Chopin’s Étude in E minor.
she took him home and asked for a child, yet he refused,
but used her body while her soul wasn’t looking.
at the crack of dawn he opened the window of her cozy East Village apartment
spread his arms and stepped down.
I couldn’t finish reading this story,
the lady in the train rolled her Post
and stepped out on West 4th.
she took with her the feeling of desolation and unrealized hopes.
last time I saw her standing in her persephonesque’ish pose
by the door.
through the bottomless pitch black well of her eyes
I had a glimpse of a silent river through
the scaffolding of the seven levels of hell.
“please, don’t follow me. I’ll take a subway”, she said.