Xanadu
 

I punch the glass. It cracks. Seven eyes seeing red. They cry. Teardrops reflect back the image. Look around. In a French torture chamber of gold and silk and a lion. The shattered mirror lies on the floor like Narcissus' broken reflection, his lungs full of himself, Who am I? What am I? Where am I? taunts the shiny glass of the bell jar, curving my face into the grotesques of a county carnival. Around and around I see the same form. The same face. But there are so many, I’

Words are still words whether they sting or stab or warm or tighten the heart. Words are still words whether they are spoken from a teacher or a cop or a parent or a stranger or a spouse or a politician. Words are still words whether they are used to break up with somebody or to confess one's love. Words are still words whether they are found in a textbook or a treaty or a heartfelt love letter or an obituary. Words are still words whether they are sincere or petty or painfu

My regret is like a grizzly bear preparing for hibernation. Consuming every fruit in sight, the bush left barren. Jagged claws grasp ripe blueberries, blessings from spring. The beast's muzzle, stained purple. Life bearing bush made obsolete. Shaggy fur like warm honey, the bees paid the price. Sickly sweet, the image sticks, ingrained deeply in my mind. The beast doesn’t care, it takes and takes; the forest will always give. Like regret, it takes from its host until desolat

Smoke is still smoke, whether it's a burning cigarette on the city floor. A fire burning out, On the shore of a beach. Smoke is still smoke, weather it's the cremation of a body. Or the blowing of ashes, on an empty beach. Or a firework fading out, on the fourth of July. Smoke is still smoke, whether its laughter on A 30 degree day. Or a cluster of clouds painting, shapes across a blue sky.

My exhaustion is a blank canvas in the dark of a dusty attic. Untouched and waiting for a spark to ignite but brushes remain stagnant. No paint to color its raw, white hide and no hands willing to bring dullness to life. Memories of cedarwood, of easels, of hope. Now become distant, from upon this grime-covered perch. The lacquered frame rots in the deep, dim, dampness, lonely, alone, aching for a rush of passion that will never come. Spiders find shelter in its aging crevi

Smoke is still smoke, whether it wanders up, in singeing spirals, from the tip of a lit cigarette sitting on cold stone, or wet log tucked away in the woods, half mile from your home. It’s the same, spewing from parted lips and constricted lungs as it is on soft cushion, in your childhood home sinking in a dome of sweet singing, a familiar symphony, and the waft of warm vanilla cake by birthday-candle light, in sugary swirls, wick dipped in frosting, and licked clean, kiss

A door is still a door, No matter what pushes, pulls or stands in front. No matter who holds the handle, or uses the sensor, The hinge will move. The door opens & closes for anyone or anything. Whether it spins, slides, or waves in. It invites anything. Inviting the bored child in the hotel lobby To spin the door. Inviting the adult that treads the tracks of life into the train. Inviting the carcass into the casket, closing,casket closing, Sealing it away from the clear day.

Ink is still ink. Whether we write a love letter, or a tearful breakup, or an inauguration speech or a graduation farewell, or a welcome letter, or a sad-filled goodbye, or a “get well soon” card, or a eulogy. Ink is still ink. Whether it sits in a pen, or in a bottle, or on the tip of a feather, or spilled on a desk, or dried on a piece of paper, or right under someone’s skin. Ink is still ink. Whether it’s used for aesthetic, or whether it’s used to fill an empty voice.

Screaming children and music all too loud, some suburban family home. A rope hung heavy in the doorway, in their faces, forever ignored. Frayed and flimsier at its ends, trampled and trudged through in the middle by dancing feet on the back garden floor. Adults choosing to pretend, speaking over the thought of the rope they left swinging, hanging, and forgotten.

Glass is still glass whether we gaze through it or shatter it into a million pieces or make a mystical mural or hold red roses or clean thoroughly to take a pretty picture or search for on the beach or step on unexpectedly at a dark sketchy park or wash with sudsy soap. Glass is still glass whether it holds pink lemonade or vials of blood, bright green acid, a mothers warm tomato soup for her sickly neighbor or a sourdough starter. Glass is still glass cover