“Phantasmagoria”

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“Phantasmagoria”

Dish soap mix melting on paint can lids.

A siphoned sight of dreams develop over the frame.

Bright and muted colors muddle the lens.

Forearm hairs prickle and goose flesh pop, pop, pops.

Crackling tissue paper stuffed in used cardboard toilet paper rolls.

While the smoothness of pouring honey is ruined by fly paper fingers.

Breathing is labored, then rhythmic.

Electric caresses shoot out to nerve endings, and back again.

Looping lull.

Then, all of a sudden:

BEING!

Standing diminutive within a black hole.

Looking upward, outward, inward,

but not downward.

As soon as you do that, you become unmoored and move through space-time at a speed faster than light.

Which is a construct that is yet undiscovered and deemed impossible.

Yet, it is, was, and forever will be,

despite our best efforts to derail dreams through the application of reason.

Whoosh!

“Confide in You”

“Confide in You”

You constantly apprise me,

of all your life’s defeats.

You itemize injustice,

casting open ended Tweets.

Your tactless tirades, tiresome.

Your suffering’s not unique.

If you look past your nose for once,

there are others seeking peace.

The egocentric predicament,

barely allows for this.

A slave to self-absorbed importance,

a textbook Narcissist.

It seems like wasted energy,

your reserve, an endless pit.

Try empathy on for size,

perhaps, a better fit?

“Downward Spiral”

“Downward Spiral”

Turning my back on derision.

Facebook clap backs are no longer important.

Moving through the virtual landscape.

Teflon spawn.

Sorting through distractions,

pausing to catch a breath.

Meanwhile, sands slip silently into the collection reservoir below.

Last time I checked, there wasn’t as much sand remaining.

“Phantomime”

Photo Courtesy of Evangeline Vickery

 

 

“Phantomime”

I travel through backstreet alleys,

and by the voided front stoops of those that gave up.

I travel in the quiet space between time,

which can only be heard when it’s snowing.

I dally, in the mere moments before a summer’s pre-dawn emergence, when newspapers used to be delivered.

I am Justice.

I am that which puts right.

I fold out into a ledger of misdeeds and heroic dramatics.

Unseen.

Faith and disbelief aid and abet my purpose.

The time line I walk is excruciatingly painful.

I persist.

I am a phantom that tickles your ear as I move intimate close.

I get the hairs on the back of your neck and forearms to stand erect.

Goosebumpily grandiose.

I’m there in front of you, despite your blindness.

Taken for granted.

Reminding you that your choices aren’t always ethical, and predominantly self-serving.

Snarky comments, sarcastic tones, and guilt reside within the quiver on my back.

I fire down upon those that abandon their accountability with great speed and force.

Recompense required.

You finally see me as you move past glossy surfaces. I am a reflection of your misdeeds.

The looking glass is incapable of lies.

You know deep down, that I am right.

You can’t hide from my truth.

I am the shadow that sticks with you in the darkness.