My mind is like a chair,
Placed right under my hair,
In the shade,
Wooden legs, paint stained seat,
Back arched in the air, a bit misfit.
I place on it a ragged doll,
Clothes with holes and faded tones,
Somewhat ***** over all.
Pretty face, a broken nose,
Lipstick on the plastic lips
Crimson red with purple lines,
Black mascara shaded eyes.
Neck is tilted to the side
as if she's trying to reproach
All the bad I've done.
Just that very second,
Feelings scream up louder,
Unwanted reaction to casual encounter,
Rude reminder of buried times that I forgot,
And can't for any price recall.
This is a special day,
Doll came out to play,
It normally lays in a box,
Folded and covered in wax,
Behind the dresser in my chest,
Left of the sternum bone,
Another left at second rib,
Number 66, ceramic numbers, brown on green.
Back to my tale. See, that's what I do,
Get lost in details, take detours,
Add sidebars, comment to my comments,
Story in the story,
Emulating Spanish movies,
Or old time Greek play-writes,
Losing readers with non-sense,
When the essence is ripe to reap.
The doll, her name is not essential,
Waits for my action.
See, that's one more weakness
I have in moments of importance:
I lose my courage,
Voice gets soft,
Eyes turn down or to the side,
You know the sort,
Daring, yet too polite.
Let's return to what we're talking.
Hold hour breath and stop the mocking,
I attempt to do some taking,
To the doll I mean, no joking,
But alas, there's no responding,
To my voice.
The echo of my thoughts returns,
The words are changed,
Answer morphed into a question,
Questions left unanswered.
Perhaps a whisper might be good.
And I approach the chair,
Lean close to her ear.
I push aside a lock of hair,
Blond-gray, but a little coarse, of course
No brush has run it's fingers through it in recent days.
"Comment ca va? Tu est bien?"
I wait a second, and I ask again:
"Comment ca va? Tu est bien?"
Was that a blink? A flinch?
Or is my imagination playing another trick?
Perhaps she's shy, plays hard to get,
Or simply hard of hearing, or asleep,
What else could it be, perhaps
A shade of ...
Oh wait, I see it now,
a letter on blue paper she's holding in her hands,
Addressed to me in cursive letters, using only vowels,
Like musical Morse code, a song unsung, and un-composed.
To comprehend you have to stand,
Recite it loud from end to start,
The only way to find its code,
Revealed as is declaimed.
And only once to understand,
The meaning lost the second try,
As every second happens only once.
It said:
"iuei eo eo, auoia eou euia'a eo."
That was all, oh..one more thing,
Scribbled right below these words,
signature in faded ink,
hard to see, easy to miss,
Only consonant on page,
Just an x,
Lonely symbol for a kiss,
Contemplation of the cross,
Meeting of the souls
At some distant instance in the past.
I was puzzled as I'm sure you are,
But elated by a feeling strange,
strong, but hard to comprehend,
Drawn by her mysterious note,
And emboldened by my heart,
Small thought first then large desire in my heart took hold,
Like a flower made of gold,
Like a bird that wants to fly,
Unrestrained and bold.
And I did it, Quick and nifty,
Leaned to steal the kiss she'd promised, but.... I'm sneaky:
As my lips were almost there,
Inches from her lips,
fraction of last second,
I pretend to hear sound of chimes,
Right outside, on forehead's patio.
So my eyes are turned right leftward,
can't recall or left to rightward,
And instead of lips on smackers......
Land my check on cheek as feathers,
Soft and accidental meeting,
So she takes no harm, that's better.
And that's all.
After this, I closed the chapter,
as the time had passed unnoticed,
I was getting claustrophobic,
And a little late for supper.
Dear Jane gets grabbed by tresses,
Body folded, nose on tummy presses,
Wooden box is opened
ready to accommodate her body,
much like baby coffin, dark but comfy.
Closed the box and dropped it
Right at said address, as you expected,
number 66, to left of sternum.
After that, I made my exit,
Wooden chair right as we found it,
Empty seat but warm imprint,
Sign of personal encounter,
Ephemeral transformation,
Some poetic decoration,
Of subconscious evocation.
May 1, 3, and 7, 2013