Varied Voices - 2002
Varied Voices - 2002
Vickie McGee
Miracle Mile
I wanna walk the miracle mile I see in your eyes, but you wear road blocking contacts concealing answers to questions asked in time tables of confusion. Petty exchanges for dramatic rearranges. I am tortured with your poking at the voodoo dolls of hypocrisy. Your serpent tongue releases images of guilt mother bird, you feed me harsh nouns and verbs that curdle in my belly. I’m older, so, I thought in battle I’d be bolder. Although against your superior ulterior motives, I am a wounded soldier, I am a wounded soldier. I wanna walk the miracle mile that lies at the base of your feet, but you love to kick my chins and dust in my eyes. Your steel toe boots have me traumatized. I have learned to fly against the wind I am forthright in my adult livelihood, mother bird, I said I am forthright in my adult livelihood, mother bird! I want to walk the miracle mile that leads to your acceptance of my decisions. I want to wrap you up in lilac purple and navy blue satin scarves and call you my muse use you to inspire and conspire to change the world. A friend said "Mine has perished with words unspoken, so honor her." Honor her? I thought upon the notion, then was slashed across the eyelids by your sharp one-sided vocabulary. Blinded by my own blood. Blinded by my own "blood" I want to walk the miracle mile simply for the sake of meeting you and resolution at the end. So we can all put our feet upon heaven’s table and sip honey lemon tea, as friends. Drown out our past thunder with smooth jazz melodies, with a phonographic spin. I just want to soar the miracle mile with you, mother bird.© Vickie McGee
LINE and LOVE Clairvoyant
The earth lay always below me like Pi repeating on a verdant board before again I drift silent to paint on pages that I pray to visit with ink reminiscent; As familiar as she will be when I find her.© Matthew DeFoy
Audited
Stayed up late in the confessional again. Waiting for stale lies, secrets dampening breath like whiskey, and the stench of truth burning as carelessly as discarded incense. Can our sins be itemized, catalogues and indexed in the hopes of some existential rebate? Accountants want to know (but not really).
Burnt Offerings
'O lovely fugitive...' Baudelaire, A une Passante Eyes travel the softness between her arm and breast, across her collarbone, to her jugular pulse, ascending upward like heat from votive candles to find warm depth behind her dreaming neck, breathing deep the grace I've stolen. She grants a formal smile -- missing this poem's whisper to those artists of old who could not brush away desire from their paintings of Mary Magdalene. Our eyes are dusky wine, poured on burnt offerings.
Made for Walkin'
beside the empty box where once nested boots of Spanish leather rich tooled with toes of silver beside the torn tissue paper, hanging ragged across the border streaked with cobwebs and grey dust resides a blister just a tiny splatter of little-remembered smear the remnants of a long-dried tear© 2002 smzang
Into The Sparkling Lurch
The finger points, you must take up the carnality discharged into your muscles, though you would rather swoop backwards and sail headlong to return into the sparkling lurch . . . into the broth of unliving, the joy. Instead you must breathe . . . and that requires the exercise of lungs, the reunion with the awkward flesh you once successfully discarded. The loneliness of life is subliminal memories of the lurch, and the sporadic ecstasies of the breathing are simply echoes of it. If you could ever think through, then back, you would understand the angels are all down here . . . but angels are never blessed with this particular perspective, and instead they can only think to invent winged fantasies flitting forever around the heavens.© Ward Kelley
