Three more poems
Dialectic
I plead with my eyes
to the women in rosaries,
so why are they chatting
with the bus driver?
What's with their fascination
with brain hemispheres,
which one they belong to?
Every body part is either an eye or a hand.
So this chatty old man, is he ogling or groping me?
And what's with people calling
the King Solomon story unrealistic? Just imagine
a woman, baby in moities, screaming
that she deserves the right half.
Dress
My sister found me
a blue flower dress
with buttons and belt loops
and other such little flourishes;
Look at me now! I have style and poise.
My body is something to style and pose.
Fractal print pants and a big blue blouse,
big swoopy overshirts, leather and skirts and
occasional lace,
subtle like salt to taste.
But that dress remains immaculate, unironed.
I wear it only to job interviews.
And lately I say,
why dress up
to your own
funeral?
Unpalatable
My concern is that red is the opposite
of violet on the electromagnetic spectrum.
I painted a self-portrait as Isabel Fall,
but forgot that blood red and camo green
mix into sludge. I hate fun facts about the word "orange",
how Monsanto made Agents for all colors of the rainbow.
I hate that there's a name for a machine that purifies
tainted soil, and it's time machine.
Hence seeing helicopters in the
mirror; hence my attempt to mix orange and navy blue.
If I lived forever I would mix
an elixir that lets me live forever,
or at least cures the problem I have with my eye-cones,
how in painting the opposite of red isn't violet.