Vertigo

Misshapen spots of heat pick her body back

trying to remember who it was and where

although a part of her, the nagger tries to allow

it all--but she knows she’s just a hedon.

Hedon? Hedonist? Shifty strobes and vertigo

these are the tunes we eat and breathe

the cubes rattle in the glass slammed on the

table-- the lights streak and shimmy with the beat

Questioning. She straightens in the mint green

she wipes her hair out of her face so she can

pump harder and let go of it all, no more chase

chasing truth, but proves hard to hold on.

The cubes seduce and ask for more rum begging,

there is only one droplet of control

before the vibrations swallow her whole, pumping.

Talking talk is always easier claims innocence

Stomachs froth with the poison and slave

to the shifty strobes with few inhibitions

arms express freedom since they can finally

move in unison. Hedonism always gets its way.

Arms lose each other and forget worry

still prices get paid, you would think

that the end would show, it’s a tough bargain

learning truth is always harder with this vertigo.

The seduction lays with the cubes, rattling

there are no rules here, nothing to be afraid of.

Here, lips talk and walk free, but do they really

think they are invincible? Everyone remembers.

Strobes stop shifting and it is light again.

The poison fades and her body is bare, white.

Do they count as “mistakes” in vertigo? Streaks

slowly scratch innocence away with a penny.

It’s a hard bargain, hedonism, that smooth talker,

convincing preacher of invincibility, courage

and the freedom to spread love, but fails

to mention the inevitable end.

The oh-so freaky fade, the vertigo goes

faster than a blink and the cubes melt and

when they do, the water is clearer than glass.

Then the truth hurts. Was it worth it?

Repost: Ashbury's Punishing the Myth

Punishing the Myth 

(A repost of a poem by John Ashbury that speaks for itself)

At first it came easily, with the knowledge of the shadow line
Picking its way through various landscapes before coming
To stand far from you, to bless you incidentally
In sorting out what was best for it, and most suitable,

Like snow having second thoughts and coming back
To be wary about this, to embellish that, as though life were a party
At which work got done. So we wiggled in our separate positions
And stayed in them for a time. After something has passed

You begin to see yourself as you would look to yourself on a stage,
Appearing to someone. But to whom? Ah, that’s just it,
To have the manners, and the look that comes from having a secret
Isn’t enough. But that “not enough” isn’t to be worn like a livery,

To be briefly noticed, yet among whom should it be seen? I haven’t
Thought about these things in years; that’s my luck.
In time even the rocks will grow. And if you have curled and dandled
Your innocence once too often, what attitude isn’t then really yours?