Therapy (Thr revised edition)

Sitting there in your sleek, black suit
you appear so serious, eyes transfixed
on the garbage pouring from my lips,
venomous secrets that had been lying dormant.

I give a sideways glance,
then scrutinize your mystic gaze,
as blue tears begin to well.
My cheeks burn as I taste
bitter salt and flush:

embarrassment,
humiliation
shame.

The cat is out of the bag; a river
beset with blackened ravines and hostile
truths come spilling, surging,
like a boisterous hurricane,
squashing malevolent self-loathing
and pitiful cries in silent anguish.
Words magically become phrases,
and develop into acrid accusations.
I feel somehow buoyant,
shedding at least ten pounds
of mental deadwood
and sewage. Turning to confront
your unwavering look,
I am suddenly floating
in a silky, tranquil sea:

is that vibrant concern?
Do you sincerely care?
Are you even listening?

I’m muttering gibberish again.
Scarlet truths seek an outlet,
stuffing the room with complex
adjectives. Thank God
there is no derisive mirror;
I must appear an unruly mess:

self-conscious,
exhausted,
nervous.

I return to your stare, as a delicate
smile emanates from the ice queen.
You are affected. You comprehend
what was previously covert.
It isn't my imagination playing
lamenting tricks. Brisk fantasies
take flight, fleeing my mind
like rats from a slow, sinking barge.

“He hurt me.
He hurt me.”
I testify without perjury.
“He hurt me.”

Black Widow

Silver spooned and silver tongued,
with icy, jade eyes, winking at you
in a sunshower’s glare, he was a visceral
threat. He acquired collections,
and hearts, without a weary worry:
crisp investments, salty sentiments,
thunderous dreams. Any withering
fool could see through sinewy pretense.

Unconventional,
inspirational,
unpredictable,
impervious.

He’s a cyclone needing to be lassoed,
barreling through the wilderness
without a care or a bother
to all that he consumes,
like a baby bouncing his way
over scattered toys.

He was fostered to be the spoiled
dashing, charismatic, malevolent
gentleman he had become.
He had a churlish allure,
a je ne sais quoi, a pearly presence,
much like those Tibetan charmers
that tantalize insidious snakes.
It happens, and you are powerless to control
it. You just need to learn to dive, hurl
away, from oncoming locomotives.

He did not intend to be cruel;
it was just the lack of care he possessed,
a surly, pathological byproduct.
Everything simply had been handed
to him so effortlessly. He had become
the ultimate consumer, a sleek cat lapping
silken cream from a pristine, porcelain bowl.

But, he had yet to make acquaintance
with that devilish, cunning woman,
the one with the charcoal hair, and cerulean
eyes , the one with the alabaster
skin that he would imprudently
covet, the one that would trump his ace
transform him, to the point
where he would sacrifice
his sober security and unflappable
swagger that had transported
him from Shreveport to Stockholm
to Shanghai, and then back to San Francisco,
and cast it aside like a indiscreet joker.
He would exhaust all his (mis)fortune.
Shockingly, he would readily welcome
the shrewd risks it would necessitate
to acquire the black widow spinning
in her pedantically, woven web, waiting
for the horsefly that had lost his way.

Making Music

Words are just a basic way
of telling you about my constitution,
but it is in my eyes that reveal
a (com)passionate story.

Some people say I am an old
soul, but in reality, I just see
the sullen, and consecrated truths.
I'm no saint, nor prophet, just a man.

I hear how one person can say
“I love you” in a raccoon’s eye,
but then see the betrayal
in his actions: the late night
presentations, the unsavory statement
from Citibank, the uneaten
slice of his favorite pie.
I am a master in keeping secrets.

Eyes wide open means looking
at a challenging day, acknowledging
its weariness, witnessing
a fellow friend’s pain,
or even you own, if you are paying
close attention to the details.
I say nothing, but I see it all.

It doesn’t take much to speculate
or even assess the situation
for what it really is,
if you neglect to hide
in charcoal shadows,
and avoid showering moonbeams.
Liberation doesn't mean freedom.

I am who I am. I sing my own psalms,
and I face clever realities.
In return I am rewarded
with constant truths
and sacred authenticity.
I’m not perfect. I am just one
of you, and I see your struggle
as my own, and I relate
resoundingly, cry your tears,
and cry my own. It’s an anthem,
a celebration, a battle, a lullaby.

Days Long Past

Words are just that,
and in the end,
what we contribute,
what we remember,
are often lost in translation,
and our misty need
for gratitude, for appreciation,
is just as sleepless as the rain,
which will pour sanctified tears
when all is said and done.

Endurance

The day sought solace
in misty rain showers
and gentle fog. Still,
the poppy persevered.