Sometime the mirror is my mother.
Her hair,
going toward gray,
graces my head.
Her eyes,
owl-wise and ancient,
emerge behind my own.
I recognize their regrets,
harbor their hopes like heirloom treasures.
Sometimes the mirror is my father.
His expression,
possesses my mouth.
His attitude,
is my only legacy.
I bear its terrible weight,
feel its fangs sink into my spine.
Sometimes the mirror is my mask.
Its stare,
blank alabaster,
terrorizes my mind.
Its features,
refuse my reflection.
I give nothing away,
shut my heart in a lead-lined vault.
Sometimes the mirror is my self.
My face,
sagging slightly,
shows my years.
My mind,
imagines another life.
I dream "me" out of existence,
someone else stares back.
I have been a thief,
robbing life from the night
stealing its essence
inhaling all its offerings
like the cigarettes
I stole from my father
and snuck into dark corners
to smoke.
I have swiped the moon's power
and used it
to weave a web,
in that lacy seduction
- lust and lunacy.
I have taken the colors
of certain eyes
that offered their glances to me,
flashing like strobes
across bar rooms and lanes of traffic,
holding them up toward the light
like crystal prisms.
I have been a burglar,
breaking into the best of dreams
convincing them to belong to me
conning them into keeping me company
recreating them in my own image,
chiseling away.
L (ove)
in the little bed
in the little room
in the little house.
The little man
( moan & groan )
( regret) is in deep
in a drown of a river
of rolling rage.
He hums his heart
a dirge
& blacks
& grays (shadows)
( ghosts).
Winter within
the reach his
( arthritic ) fingers
constricting.
D (espair)
his eyes (blind)
tight twisted
little torture.
The little man
all alone trapped
( tears ) in the temptation
to put an end to it all.
There's nothing little
large in l (ove)
