Waltzing Towards Atlantis
Sepia pen and ink mermaids
swim across my canvas
luscious locks of auburn hair
levitate off bare shoulders
drift in irregular currents
allowing tail fins to stabilize
lithe dancing bodies long enough
to captivate a seafarer’s fancy
demonstrating, encouraging desirability
transforming into seals or humans
shapeshifting once again as nereids
ever inviting, always beyond reach.
Rise, rise, rise up through the depths
enter my saltwater dreamscape
requite romantic notions of oceanic trysts
reclining on coral beds like a coma reducer
we’ll share childhood secrets, reveal adult fantasies,
pantomime our aqua lust beyond seaweed and kelp
move closer and closer until fingertips touch,
pursed lips release bubbles, and laughter
generates tsunamis that cleanse my emotional prison
like Heracles flushing filth from Aegean stables
passion shall invigorate our oxygen deprived lungs
as maritime nymphs sing and reinforce siren resolve.
Motor Cards
Playing cards clipped to bicycle wheels
one eyed jacks motorize the rear
while all four aces shuffle on front spokes
drowning out early morning sparrows and
wrens
slicing though dew laden streets
clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety
clack
announcing my roadway prominence
weaving in and out of imaginary traffic
hands free from the handlebars
defying safety and parental rules
flirting with girls who stroll to school
in cotton dresses, waving as I zip pass
them
smug
as a biker sans leather… sans Harley
tires
increasing momentum—wind at my back.
Clytemnestra’s Venue
Sultry laughter soared above
squeezebox-like voices in the lobby
personality echoed wall to wall as I
sought out Clytemnestra’s faceless figure,
legendary, alluring, exotic without form
as ever present as a phantom sirens
haunting mezzanines, balconies
and lobbies with effervescent persistence.
Over my shoulder a cool breeze whispered
curious thoughts in stereo, tickling both
ears
turning I beheld a woman as enchanting as
Circe,
spiritual as Dante’s Beatrice, chill as
Helen of Troy;
a halo enveloped her body and shimmered
like moonlight glancing off virgin
snowflakes
I stared. She smiled. We both began to
speak—
then stopped—blushing in tandem, our mouths
refused dialog locking eyes in a mutual
gaze.
Misreading her countenance as consent
assured
when I reached out to touch her lustrous
apparition
any semblance of corporal substance melted
into shadows although her voice—soft,
distinct,
sultry, and pure—seethed up floorboards,
bounced off the ceiling frescos, vibrated
stain glass windows, and settled in rafters
out of hands reach, by memory eternalized.
Sidewalk Blizzards
Long before a gross-out contest
with Mötley Crüe when
Ozzy Osborne
snorted ants through a Jackson like a line of cocaine
Sammy sucked up rank and file travellers
along pheromones trails with her Ryobi
hand vacuum, watching the herculean insects
scale the transparent sides fighting
the intake draw, thrown into circle
as if attempting to navigate the eye
of a tornado—sans Dorothy, sans Toto—
looking for scented pathways and exits
their confined existence in the dust
busting penitentiary jostling for space,
competing with fluff balls, dirt, lint,
and whisk broom straw, claiming
microscopic space, steadying themselves
to ride out a storm driven by passion
fuelled by Sammy’s cordless cleaner
screaming the lyrics to “Crazy Train”
eyes wide-open, lungs breathing heavy, she
stalked daylight pests like the Prince of Darkness.
Tanya’s
Spin
We
climbed the monkey bars during recess
watched
the girls twirl in circles
on
a cold, grey turning bar; around
&
around they’d spin like circus acrobats
picking
up momentum, daring peers
to
follow their lead—regardless of age
size,
height, or dress; Tanya walked
to
the bar every day, stared at steel—
ever
a challenge, never at ease;
though
plumper than most girls,
she
looked quite adult, long hair
cascading
down shoulders that one day
would
strut runways. We’d coax Tanya on,
till
one morning she mounted the beasty,
left
knee link around the bar, ready
for
action; moments later she hung
upside
down, her flowery dress
covering
a torso (that dared to be great)
like
a reverse umbrella, leaving
the
sight of a chubby leg clinging
to
the twirl bar, revealing pink flesh
through
three holes in cotton underwear
—something
we laughed about while sucking face
during
high school, both seeking to reach third base.
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