Texas: The Grand Facade

“All my instincts, they return, and  the grand facade, so soon will burn”. Songwriter: Peter Gabriel, In Your Eyes

§§§§§

and so nature does it best to humanize the arrogance,
“can’t happen here, can’t happen to me,
I’m too young, a brave Alamo Texan,”

forgot Gabriel’s admonition, the grand facade, is exactly that,
a coverup, and skin is not deep enough, even your tough hide,
cannot keep out what you
cannot see, is stronger than you,

did you weigh the scales,
do a cost/benefit analysis,
write down the pros & cons?

think of coronavirus like love and ***,
——————
good love is a treasured blessing, a live long song,
wine to be pleasured sipped, you get drunk on beer, and
hookup ***, give yourself ******, aids, and/or the clap,
a bad decision, a haunting, a hangover that is marked on you face,
that you’ll testify to
every day for the rest of your sad, sad, existence,
in the bathroom mirror
a facade always gets revealed,
too bad you chose the
wrong thing to believe in...

you unmasked yourself!

why do you go to sleep in t-shirt and no bottoms?
he asks after years of
le marred marriage age

why for modesty and as a
sign of respectful readiness,
naturally!

gazing upon me, you’ll see my x-small size,
tight bright pink v-necked t-shirt from Old Navy

making you reflect, my dear,
that this particular woman
is one confident sailor

gazing upon me, you’ll see my naked pure
intentions undoubtedly at the ready
per my
Girl Scout training,
“Be Prepared”
whenever help is needed^

making you reflect, my dear,
that this lady scout could probably
start a fire easy with just
one handy stick
and you,
‘rubber suit’ matching
my nighttime costume,
when our “couture au lingerie,”
exhibits a happy styling similarity

~


~

write me a short poem that rhymes,
will make for it a tune wholly mine,
and sing it,
when my my memory needs your sparking,
my Texas heart requires your comforting

and your music is the only answering

~



~

~~~
~bye~
what right we mess with a better gone before?^

what right does it mess with our composure
one hundred and three years later?

~

“Such are the little memories of you”

these crafted words of flying feet bittersweet
knock a mother farther back upon her lowered flat heels,
recalling too, similar and same,
the resounding pattern of a gone child’s pitter-patter,
of treading, exploring long hallways and secret rooms
with comfortable, yet reckless flying abandon until,
a fateful reckoning abandons us both

this poem elocutes my charges against your Taker,
and all the little prayers of the angels sent to minister,
give no comfort like the giant memory of your
running little feet,
coming and going and gone