Tales bleached my soul
with whiteness so pure it resists filth
for thirty fucking years. Idealization
of love, the centerpiece of my grave,
shackles my left ankle wherever I go.
Fairies and frogs. Villains so violent
they devour little girls' innocence.
Mine is safe. Hidden from the wolves.
They sniff; they trail. I run; I bail.
When all things decline
into the reinstatement of guilt,
my path is an anticlimax. So winding
it becomes endless. I thought I saw
the end. Branches shoot like rockets
to the sky, like fireworks
of moldy greenness. The witch's
candy house. Its peppermint wind
inviting. Too tempting to pass.
But I am neither a child
nor a princess. Life is made
of periwinkle and pirate dreams.
Once I find; the other I fight.
He was beautiful as light. Faceless
black and white, what did he see in me
that wronged Universe's mystery?
Then came a game of make believe,
minus its powerful remembrance.
Re-emergence. Or a touch like it.
I thought I saw the beginning
of our end. Weary, awry, consolidation
projects traces of imagery. His face
a consummate beauty. Still, a wolf.
Monday, February 20, 2012, 7:15 – 10:30 PM