two months at best

the doc said,

and we went home…

–in drowning rain

–in pregnant silence

–in circular, useless thought

* houseplants *

* houseplants *

* houseplants *

(need watering)

and we’re still out of milk…

‘better remember to–

oh!

a new lymphatic system!

you need

a new lymphatic system, too…

‘missing red lights

that beamed like

land bound sentinels

worn-out

windshield wipers

smearing grey horizon

over everything

. choking view .

obscuring doorways

faceting teardrops

blurring petals

of withered African violet

(the one in the foyer)

(the one that’s been there as long as I’ve known you)

(the one that needed watering sooner)

leaves falling

like fuzzy rain…

like two months left

to live

(at best)

after the rain

do you see the bow?

or do you track mud,

wherever you go. . .

–in steps you don’t measure

–in boots made for walking

in lines,

but not loops,

that don’t lead to treasure?

& after the trials

are eyes open wider?

or do you walk gauntlet,

always the fighter. . .

–instincts you don’t curb

–in acts that prolong

in loops,

and in lines,

the thing that disturbs?

& after the strut

do you wait in wings?

of stage that is silent,

or hear angels sing. . .

–in tones that are gleaming

–where sound & light merge

in loops,

but not lines,

of lyrics redeeming?

since after the reign

& after all glory

a new page begins,

–and so does your story…

dancing with veils,

I dropped them

one

~by

~~one

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~~

~ ~ ~~~

by–

well–

some were ripped away

(inveigled violation)

and some were

trod upon,

(and went missing thereafter)

and some were too thin

(to qualify as veils)

and were mist

nonetheless

and some floated away,

(caught in the tango of divestment)

and some weren’t veils at all, but ephemeral spirit

(disguised ascots)

which I

so vain

didn’t think I needed anymore, until finally

all were spun and sung and flung and to my

sheer amazement

I only then noticed there was nothing of

me

left…

just a bundle of rags that seemed

threadbare, in the glare

(of spotlights lit too long)

shedding detail, and

sequins, and

~silvered threads~

in tinseled drops.

The Game of Life

(the card version)

is 52–

you pick up more

or less

cards

(sometimes, too)

(depending how you play)

and perforce

arrange them by suits.

Birthday Suit

is freshest.

The hearts & love suit,

because…babies

(who doesn’t love a baby)

an up-all-night pastime

with in-your-face cards

stamped by cake

(whatever’s left)

candles,

dangly bits,

and

me-me-me

(me)

–the magic meld

that wins the hand.

Suit Yourself

is closely related

–the other red suit–

which appearance

(in the game)

could be marked by diamonds

(conflicted or otherwise)

friendship bracelets,

matching polos,

or promise-I’ll-buy-it-later

rings

–the strong of this suit

all about

you-you-you

(you)

Monkey Suits

follow

(suit)

a disproportionate sequence

of uniform,

office wear,

and ties-on-top

Zoom apparel

that goes on and on

(and on)

and so on

its paycheck-based

clubs

mandating dues

for the best part of this go’round

–as boring as War

and practically

lifelong

Good thing, then,

Suits of Armor

can also be drawn

–or purchased on Amazon

with iffy second-day delivery options–

since at this point

in life’s game

–you better have won–

outerwear to

trump

the luck or misfortune

of your draw

a blinded amalgamation of

all that’s come before

–piled high and brought to the table

(courtesy of)

me-you

hymns & hearse

–along with

pencil

(to keep score)

and spade.

Rainy Monday crushed on TGF

(That Girl Friday)

poured get up and go,

cats and dogs

and sodden checks, too,

into the second day…

(a delightful afternoon)

but log-jammed on Wednesday’s grade.

‘Bristled lightning at the delay

struck hammer blows–

in thunderous, 24/7 drumroll

(Thor’s-day)

and Tapped out at sunrise…

(the beginning of the best)

the dawn of indulgence,

a payday unspoken for,

and no real rules at all.

And in this oasis of

pivotal construct,

Monday and Friday

>merged<

living a life of Saturdays,

that slept an extra hour…

‘Spilled coffee on rumpled sheets,

and crafted reel-to-real memories,

(with glitter and Elmer’s Glue)

‘Spooned weekend-flavored ice-cream

into bottomless bowls,

* erasing headlines *

and red-penning subterfuge…

incidentally creating

a human-interest story

that could run

all week.

/ divided /

my parts

are greater than holes

~inside~

that find me

lacking some roles…

(together)

this difference

is sum 1

←a p a r t→

(that adds up)

2

X

a factor 4

♥

(which multiplied)

2 times

by zero

produces→

X’s & O’s

an answer conclusive…

the See

formed

atop

the Depression,

run-off

from

I

(myself & me)

and intermittent. . .

a build up

of

24/7

damn-giving!

spilling

–no longer contained–

and lacking second-sight,

relative to naught.

See mirrored

focus

–in the write lighting–

and

See revealed

bottom

–strewn w bloated hope–

and

See

eddied constantly

–vanquishing tired armed–

and

See

continued to eyes

drowning

–me–

(myself & I)

in

perpetual, doubling vision.