some new outrage

some new outrage this way slinks,
in nine-inch heels and tousled hair.
lips, a red-ripe apple, laced in sugared nothings.
shiny, shimmering she slithers wily
then she strikes.
with the crook of one adulterous finger,
he is snared.

Liminal

I am the in-between:
the waiting space
where overgrown vines push against the trellis,
reaching for the light;
where the sun slants before its repose
and the world, for a moment, is gold.
Not-here-nor-there,
a mythical rock rolling on Hades’ hill.

What is Love (or the Bar Brawl story)

If I had to think about my previous lovers, they seem to melt into each other like candle wax drippings congealed on an old bottle of chianti. There's the Muslim, the Italian and the German. What would happen if they all walked into a bar? Would they each buy me a drink and vie for my affection?

In the story I would write, they would all end up in a brawl. Each a fighting cock, ruffling feathers and one-upping each other. They would show me and, more importantly, each other, that one was indeed more worthy. Perhaps a Muslim jab, an Italian punch and then a German kick? Tables, chairs, and emotions, all askew. All this, because of me. Wouldn't that be grand? And me?--well, I'd feign indignity. How could you, I'd say. Then I'd most likely end up with the bartender. C'est la vie, mes cheris!

But this is a story already written. This is about love. Love that twists and wrenches after the proverbial honeymoon is over. There are no knights or distressed damsels. Nonetheless, if you do end up with Mr. Right, despite the rough spots and broken glass, there's always the promise of a happily ever after around the bend.

For those anchored attitudes

I cannot stay anchored on this dock
where barnacles stick and rot.
Floorboards, one by one, splinter
at the sun. And salt, for what it's
worth dries out my skin.
I think I've tarried long enough
and played my part with ease:
the dutiful shipmate, the captain's hand,
I scrubbed the deck to gleam.
The plank so tempts me like a lover with a
promise -- not yet broken --
and one day soon I'll walk it
with intention to pave my way complete.
The anchor has weighed heavy,
deceitful and mocking,
towards worlds beyond the horizon.
Yet degrees of latitude and longitude
remain untraveled.
We dilly and we dally and then
pretend to live out wishy-washy dreams.
How it happened, I do not know: we somehow meant
to sail away. So here we are, worn out
and brittle; tired of the sunset as we wait for it
to rise.

*title line taken from Sylvia Plath's "Touch-and-Go"*


©2011 b.cisek

Room for Doubt

We sit across--
apart--and it's more than space between us.
That space where several lifetimes were lived
like moving pictures on the silver screen.
Nostalgic-tragic-sentimental.

Arms crossed against your chest,
but even that couldn't stop the piercing words
flying out of my mouth like arrows dipped
in hate, or worse, bright white contempt.
Whatever happened to silent pictures?

There was a time when there was no space.
Just us.
Time, imperceptible, shifting,
like snow, heavy on a branch.
Snap! And something falls

Into something else.
You are no longer the you I knew.
And neither was I.

Buried in the snowdrift, chilled.
I am so cold.

And there you are.
Here we are--sitting
with that space.
In this room, where doubt has thrived.

(The Broken Spaces)

Where pigeons hunt for food in festering streets
Amid shantied bungalows where life lies low;
The once-bright houses now all faded, as if to blend with sky in shame.
The cracks, like wrinkles, worn out and gray.

Where pigeons build their nests in broken spaces,
Needles scatter like confetti from a long-forgotten birthday party.
The only fix is that one-time high, the momentary release (relief) of mind.
Denial is a tempest that lifts you up--

Where pigeons fly away from all the shambles,
Height smooths out the grungy faces.
And hope?
Well--hope was once a good idea. Like your last five bucks coursing through a vein.

Bring Your Cart

*a revision of an older piece*

She's taken to washing her hair in city sprinklers. Long strands of it, in public view. What's next? A fireman's hydrant? The next-door neighbor's dog's hydrant? Where'd she come from, pushing her cart along the streets. Life in a cart, how odd: but not-so-rare. I'll give you this dollar, she said, if you would go in and buy me some fries. They wouldn't let me in, she said, looking this way. Nevermind the look, I thought. Besides the sprinkler, when did you bathe last?

Downtown San Francisco, south of market, home to the homeless: the reality pitted against dreams. On the other side, the streets were filled with corporate creeps, sipping their lattes and espressos, catching buses to nowhere and somewhere--somewhere where economics grew. Mr. Suit and Mrs. Coat, radio-controlled. Speaking on static, frantic cellular phones. Nobody looks anyone in the eye anymore. Not me, especially. But then this woman, having a sprinkler walks up and does just that. With a dollar for some fries.

Back then, she said, we were artists. With our beat poetry and psychedelic trips. Have you been to blue? Where is blue, I asked. Blue is a state of mind, man. The home Dorothy talked about in Oz. But no ruby slippers clicking. Man, it's fingers snapping, tapping, raspy voices pontificating truths still existent but now somewhat dim. In blue candles drip their tears unlike your post-modern dripless candles that do not drip in shrines built to everything with plastic painted faces. Nowadays, even tears are manufactured from techno-sweat.

I looked around and began to see what she meant. Across the street the people metamorphosed into Mr. Suit and Mrs. Coat, 21st century lords. Blue sold out to multimedia guilches to manufacture uniform experiences: uniform non-conformist, individual experiences. Of instant gratification images. Monochrome colors and khaki weekends.

And then she interrupted. I really want those fries. That's right: fast-food fries for fast-track lives. Man, she said, can you stop long enough to put down your latte and step into my sprinkler bath? With a twinkle in her eye and a sneer on her lips. Refreshing. Have a show, go on exhibit: my life-in-a-cart IS performance art. Except nobody's going to look you in the eye. They're too busy watching screens and graphs on iBooks, listening to iPods and talking on iPhones. All the iWalls are up. No more moon-watching. Hurry, hurry, hurry bring your cart!