Sep 142011
 
Here my pieces make their spluttering way
To infamy, not fame;  perspectiveless, yet not Picasso.
What the heart tells itself cannot be trusted.
"There's too much juice in this goose to be flavorless--
Even the flamboyant great paced out their days
In mendicant obscurity. . ."  Lies lacquered on lies
Blurring the clarity of the true grain.  And yet,
What we tell ourselves becomes what we are,
Dissing the chance disasters that really happened.
I sought a balance and sought for it in vain,
Finding my stride in a downhill whirl at windmills. . . .
Whatever favors fools favors me;
My Panama hat made motley by sweat,
Waking frozen by nightmare and bathed with regrets.
I check myself in the flatness of a passing glass:
One enlarged eye, the other dull, bald,
In flat retreat like a touched tentacle,
The fluted mouth aghast for air as it almost surfaces.


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