54. Breakfast Time

Silly things!
Scurrying ‘round in flocks of 2 or 3,
picking at the scraps:
French toast doesn’t remain
on the ground for long!

I can tell the females are
greyish; males maybe brighter brown.
I’m no ornithologist;
I can appreciate a good little bird
though;
these little things are
little wonders,
aren’t they!

Look: this one has a
pink Fruit Loop
stuck round its beak:
if Kellogg knew how convenient
these were for the little birdies,
they would be proud –

How well they fit, like wreaths
around their beaks;
how well they fit down their little throats!
I don’t know if I should be mad,
losing bits of food to them,
or if I should be amused at their excitement, their sugar high;
or just to sit in peace,
regarding them
with such a
watchful eye!

"...daintily picking up a Cheerio..."
Photograph by Kelly Riccetti

Source: Red and the Peanut

53. Granted

It was just yesterday
you were a darling babe
in blue swaddling blankets,
who cried, yes,
but –
you were the sweetest,
littlest thing,
dearest.

What happened?
Everything now is,
“No, no, no!”
Everything is
uphill struggles, battles of
wills.

You are now a slightly larger
bundle of rebellion.
I hope I am raising you up well,
but it’s hard to tell:
I live with so much
guilt, dread, regret;
I must be screwing up.

Thank God
you are just my brother.
I hope your life
is easier than mine,
that you don’t endure
the things I
must.

But please, please, please
stop whining:
do your Goddamn
homework.

52. The Dead Poets

Society closes up its
doors:
entry is not permitted to
outsiders.

They create a world of
artisans, purported
geniuses,
sipping tea and critiquing
so-and-so's metrics,
etc.

Shameless feminists,
chauvinists, misogynists,
inept politicians, shockers,
potsmokers -
with a limbo-ing sexuality
for good
measure.

Yes, shun me from the
exalted doors:
you, who do not understand
true anguish;
you - who live to see your artless
names in
print:
you -

I am disgusted, revolted
by this lack of Truth,
and this chaotic
struggle for
fame.

You are a cheap wine,
clichéd and overwrought
at best,
bubbling at snooty parties in
NY;
you are the sour milk,
curdling in the
August sun.

51. Beneath the Summer Stars

The noisy filibustering
had thrust me out of doors;
there: tucked amidst the silenced hills,
the gypsy toiled away.

Her headdress marked with ancient signs,
magnetic, drew the crowds
exotic eyes aloof and dark,
aflame with prophecy.

And as I took my place by her,
a chill swept through my soul;
the Magyar sat across from me –
our eyes gazed potently.

She swept her skilful hands across,
the Tarok cards alight,
their cryptic symbols wild and strange:
and so she read my fate.

And as you watched me tacitly
the bitter breeze grew sharp,
tormenting my unready skin;
yet how I burned within!

Yes, as the gypsy’s tale had ceased,
I burnt with such a fire,
ignited by my destiny,
in fevered ecstasy.

As night wore on, I sat by you
and stole each glance I could
from those intense Uralic eyes;
they glanced at me so brief –

Despite the coldness of the moon,
which spilled across the steppes
and lit the gypsy’s secret craft,
bright hope had sprung in me;

but though I leapt into the flames,
the Fates could not be moved:
forever am I doomed to live,
recounting such a loss.

50. An Apology

The first time,
I recognized that awkward way
you tried to strike up conversation,
succeeding, yet failing –

The second, I thought
you would have forgotten:
I was busy stuffing my mouth
with free Timbits.
I did not look attractive
(this is an honest admission) –
I was startled
you even remembered
me.

It’s scary, wonderful,
knowing –
someone pines for me
as I languish for others.
A strange twist of fate that
we must all suffer at
each other’s hands.

I see you sometimes.
I would like to say, “Hello”
and explain,
but I cannot recall
your name.
Maybe success demands
that I break hearts,
yours:
and
mine.

49. Staregazing

Across this galaxy,
the multitude of light between –
a star shot ‘cross the sky!

The twinkle in your eye
ignites the ruddy brown in mine:
our galaxies collide –

Emboldened, bravely stare:
too curious to look away,
too startled to persist.

I want to be that doll
residing in that fiery eye;
I want to dwell in you,

the way you live in me:
illuminated in the sacred halls
of cross-stitched memory;

Oh, tell me – are you cold?
This blazing brilliance, upon
a skewed trajectory?

Or is this distant fire
a stare to set alight my hopes,
and do you burn for me!

48. Becoming: Immortal

Dare I say it?
Applauding, simpering,
fawning –
is This what It is?
I am disappointed.

Awards and recognition,
laurels, plaques, and accolades:
ah, to think –
this once meant something.

I have waded out too far:
the land I see is
seen by none;
I wander with the dead
in silent Purgatory.

To have died before a death:
to watch one’s body
trampled
while alive;
to be dissected, analyzed,
interpreted – to see this
failure to
“understand” –

It is not death in life we crave for
but quite the opposite.
Do not forget me –
but in life, let me be.

The grave is silent:
I cannot hear your
desecrations
there.