i grab an iron scythe and bolt a metal ball
unto its handle's bottom, roughly sharpening
its time-worn rusted blade between two flat-side stones,

a leather wrist strap hung below in case it falls
out of the swinging hand, to grasp what's happening
when metal slices human flesh down to the bone,

my questions, each with force that deeply penetrates
will breach her shield and nick her armor slicing wide
to move through flesh, expose the hidden living blood,

and all that's cryptic in her heart, although she hates
confessions, she will moan thus cleansing all inside
till secret truth has quick deluged in filthy flood

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

oh summer nights past bedtime little boy,
upon your windowsill your elbows ached,
far past astoria park 'cross river, joy
in buildings with lit windows row-like raked,

you watched, the lights of cars over the bridge,
queensborough to its fifty-ninth street end,
imagined bustling streets, smokey sewage,
stood cigarettes on tarred streets round each bend,

the living night alive with bustling life,
new york strangers engrossed in sense-filled play,
in music, food, drinks, laughs, the city rife,
enough to fill fables and tales next day,

oh child, in isolation's painful sting,
vicarious living would pleasure bring

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

the good old baritone advises her,
his sopranino daughter tweets disjoint,
arpeggio his point, her counterpoint
a syncopated rhythm of meter,

her high pitched protestations in her pleas,
and low-pitched grumbling sighings alternate,
as puntal, contrapuntal altercate,
to musically the rolling of her eyes,

his stern yet soft soprano wife defers,
while yielding to her baritone's movement,
conducting, though, the orchestrated theme,

as tenor, alto sons  caesur' occurs,
her soothing background voice reveals eschewment,
with daughter's movement stuck 'tween measures' beams

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

with iron bolts rust-fastened to her copper face,
her brass eyes only move her pupils elsewhere far,
resolved and steel-willed she has left my side, her place,
her gaze and love for me now hang upon a star,

cold metal forged within her furnace blasted high,
a permanent visage no more will feign to move,
her thoughts aloft so far, the sight of her so nigh,
she's stopped the stopwatch of my time to prove,

amazing how the human flesh can turn to steel,
how fascinating transmutations quickly peak,
how one so loving woman quick unlearns to feel,
how one who knew no silence quick unlearns to speak,

unraveled slow to tatters, now we've come undone,
i sleep the moonless night that's lost its living sun

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

you never thought to chew my lips like gum,
or scream your hurricane to flap my skin,
you never served your eyes to me like ***,
but breathed your name most like a thought within,

you were neither a virtue nor a sin,
i had no boast of you nor did confess,
never a scowl or howl but halfway grin,
you had a name my mind can not profess,

today you question me in much distress,
we met and spent the day but yesterday,
you claim you wore a pretty summer dress,
how could i not recall these things you say?

whoever you were, whatever your name,
to've met you or to not would be the same

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

to hate me is the only way to live,
for loving me is holding back the clock,
don't hold its hands, they'll break for they won't give,
and now these hands, your heart are made of rock,

your lips are sealed to me as with a lock,
and though i scream to you you'll have no speech,
our love you've pawned, our friendship you now hock,
and all my protestations can not reach,

your heart's allowed new love to seep and breach,
its torment's come from loving fully two,
both loves have grated on your nerves to screetch,
so now you bid your old one adieu!

and i, the one you swore you'd always love,
fall off the precipice by violent shove

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

the compensation for my competence?
     a can of Coors occasionally crowned
with sticky notes instruction-filled and dense,
     with worn old shoe string thick and tightly bound,
a brief hurrah before a list to do,
if time were air, with duty i'd turn blue,
     a present given as a false pretense,
  
his recompense? a crushed Coors can atop
     the boss' desk, a drop spilled on the wood,
a single sticky note stuck to the drop,
     "your list of things to do, i could, I should...
yet reach up to that single book, top shelf!"
("Learn How to Fix Your Life--Do It Yourself!")
     soon management will purge all its dead wood,

and driftwood i will be among the planks,
     and crates expelled above board for to stay
afloat, the company in all its ranks,
     will learn that without wood the boat will stray
not only from its sure intended course,
but from the surface to the floor of course,
     to join the tiger shark and manta ray,

soon supervisors, managers and such
     will join department heads, vice presidents,
chief officers valued, appraised worth much,
     thrown overboard to chase those dividends,
that sink so silently to ocean floor,
where there exists no air lock's safety door,
     when futures join the pasts through these presents,

my recompense for knowing when to quit?
     a can of Coors occasionally crowned
with smiling lips and laughing breath of wit,
     my happy feet in new shoes leather-bound,
a new ship where appreciation rings
the ship bells of respect on many things,
     smooth sailing through safe seas without a ground.

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos