MY LIFE SO FAR...or the vagabond takes his trip

The clichés of life are robust
and hearty in the mildew sweat,
festering from absentee portions
of my forgotten basement.

I have professed no goal,
as much as I have desired direction;
the former is never the shortest distance
between points ‘A’ and ‘B.’

To be taken seriously in due course,
I have cultivated a good sense of humor.
It has served me well.
For only after I laughed into this face,
did others recognize worth
in taking me seriously.

When carving my niche
in the forest of life
I did not immediately stab into the heart
of the nearest glistening pine
without first considering
how much sap would spill
from its sticky soul.

My road has been for reflection
- one third amiss
two thirds vision.
To reflect in hindsight
perhaps, was inevitable.
To dwell upon it
has been pointless.

In reflection, then, I now recall,
that my greatest despair came not
when the battle seemed bleakest,
only when I resigned hope
of rescheduling the rematch.

…and yet, my most profane self discovery
humbled; that at any given moment
never more certain than mere paces removed
was I from the person swinging naked on a maypole.
If spontaneity be that spice of life,
my common sense has been its advisable Benzedrine.
Conscience, my personal income tax –
for which never a moment existed
where calm judgment proved more a hindrance
than rash decision-making.

If only now,
I seem to present, dear friends
this magnanimous creature of foresight,
I recognize, as much for your vanities
as my humility
that it came,
blithe and decorous,
with more than ample regrets.

Emotion remains my tenderloin,
proverbial marbles lost at play.
In many ways masqueraded
as the part of an elegant fool,
taking time out for comedy;
the fool’s paradise,
when perhaps prudence might have
in order to preserve my forgotten face,
instructed to bring more Kleenex
to life’s party instead.

In this, I have at last redeemed my soul
so readily willing and pliable to be happy
that I deemed its simplest travel
the impossible dream.

Now,
arise,
dear reader
and dare to peruse me no more.
I have nothing left to give.
for the road life travels
is only two directions –
the paths well trampled,
and those too late in the footprint
of each forgotten journey.

I speak of the awakening…
now, go to sleep.

@Nick Zegarac 2006 (all rights reserved).

REFLECTION IN THE WATER

Tender gales whistle the willows
in radiating stalks of sun
birthed, then gone -
yet in my heart
renewal springs
the sacred parchment memoirs,
beckoning life and love
to linger on.

As the cradle of innocence
born in rippling seas,
marries shellfish
to engorging sands,
as flaxen hours
sift, are bare caressed,
through foamy lace
ebbing salty kisses
upon rejuvenating lands.

No coastal regret may captivate -
Triton unleashes his tidal dismay
hearty in mariner’s pride
swallowing swarthy romances,
dragged under mermaid’s breath,
thrust deep and forth, then carelessly away.
When August moon love decorates
its prelude to shipwreck in fresh barnacles
leaving bitter thoughts to betray.

Yet, how quick the light timber easily departs,
leaving behind its vestiges in swift,
heavy autumn decay,
splashing the pool of merriment about
dense plunder sprites
succumbing to their weighty despair
in oceanic cascades,
bon-sky embers afire,
smoldering fool’s folly -
under bountiful mist-laden crutches.

How now, cries the pagan sprig
in bereavement of cursed winter renewed,
her wretched frozen oasis
dangling death upon the heath,
a frigid mantel in crusted oceans
where skaters slice up the ice,
and silver wet flakes parade
their grey-toned firmament,
extracting the seasonal vice.

And here,
atop this encroaching epoch,
the canyon sparrow weeps
an eternal sonnet
encircling each final breath
awaiting the end of time
in her setting sun,
the wrenching winds have told and taught her,
my hopes,
diseased fears,
all dreams gone by,
like reflections in the water.

FATHER

Into the cheery abyss
of childhood days
we burst into his arms
“What did you bring us?”
Unconditional love, pride
and devotion to our every whim
No conscious weight applied.

Years later,
Summation of his worth
dwindled into a few hush pauses,
the prerequisite of tears,
an appreciation distilled
into tangible remorse
and the inevitable,
“What did he leave us?"

PHOTO LOGIC

The social footsteps of time -
cropped and matted
on display
or periodically splashed
as inserts;
shape-shifting remnants
of truth reconstituted.

Epitaph stamped in flashbulb memoriam,
luminous pedigree by the gilded soothsayers,
their slant in showmanship
present fact below par –
misperceived as “nothing but”
predigested cultural mandarins
with a one-world narrative
emanating Jeremiahs
on the nightly news…

You see –
not always does a picture tell the whole story…
‘worth a thousand words’
- perhaps,
or thirty seconds spent in commercial free
apart from first making deeper inquiry –
amongst the many thousands from which to choose
which absolute is there left to lose?

OUR DILIGENT COOK

Her thick
snicker-snap steps
go clickity-clack,
heel to toe.
A weighted truck
across the Linoleum,
rumbling, as if, on cobblestone

She pirouettes a dervish of
gnarled hands clutched full
with powdery utensils,
studying the fine print
on the back of a Graham cracker box

The whiz-grind spinning
of bladed Kitchen Aid muses
Hair mussed with dough
and pale flour rouge
upon apple cheek.
A flair of apron strings.

No.
Not yet.
Forty-five minutes to go,
or until, light and bubbly.
She collapses
amidst a fouled heap
of rags and sticky dishes,
content to start planning
tomorrow’s dinner menu.

LOST

The impulsive swell,
of her misshapen breast,
drew his heated breath
into forced puffs.

Deeper,
labored,
struggling.

Onward – lasting expulsion
of tainted youth,
with ball of socks,
resting off to their side,
tempo driven
keeping time,
as a pounding drum roll,
through each fall
and rise.

Their eyes, in unison closed,
to an unholy surprise,
with the sparked innocence
of childhood suddenly,
irreversibly
behind them.

SOUTH-WEST OF NOWHERE

When descending into Rouge purgatory,
that vast inhospitable landscape of ascetic death
one prays for hushed-winged Godspeed
and a chariot-full tank of Benzene.

For south-west of nowhere,
lies a desolate tinderbox
mercilessly veiled
through apocalyptic urban decay –
the unwilling decamped,
moldering its motley kith by crater-light
swallowing totality
of any aspiration measured
real or imagined,
beyond that cavernous wasteland.

Caliginous junk pile,
wailing ramshackle row
of saggy façades and trodden recesses
internalizing silent notes
distemper in unison
– one low sustained echo
no Motown ever knew.

Here, the piteous smugglers deal,
pithy tokens of kinship away
dangling loose smelly ankle socks
and aged red nylon parasols
from the gaped festering cavities
open wide as the Hotel Yorba.

Dislocated under jazz-velvet hairy arms
unaccustomed to the cool
accepting payoffs from billfold politicians
extolling what few square blocks of virtue remain –
untouched by greed and filth
while all around
these nicotine stained indexed hearts
billow the sacrament - ritualized truths
tossed lifeless and bloodied
in empty back lots
where no prosperity may grow,
crushed against the cracked holding lot
outside the Salty Dog Tavern.

Drive on, fair chariot,
drive on.

ON TAQUATO LAKE...

...he sits beside himself -
a lurid frenzied shade
unrecognizable.
His stammering heart
contorted and flailing,
unreal and yet realized -
in every tortured cog interring wild thoughts
dawdling to early decay.
The tender blow of cinder flakes
funnels the umber mists of fireflies up and away
her crisp death mask imprinted
in the gasoline soaked brittle bon’,
languid last expulsion of campfire,
cannibalizing her tender vestiges.
In the pit of his manic exhilaration;
her fiery cessation at midnight
narrowly peeks through
the hangman’s noose -
choke-holding heart
enveloped hers,
charring scorned lover-wisdom
acquired too late
and lain brutal
upon unsuspecting flesh
on Taquoto Lake.

WHEN NATURE SPEAKS

When Nature speaks,
she marks her burgeoning season’s kiss
in wet dew, autumn gales,
bountiful, thickening rainbows anew,
the crisp aloof crunch of native rot
stripping her art from ancient bows
cast carelessly asunder,
preparing the encroaching plunder.

When Nature speaks,
she surmises death,
easing the craggy limbs
from brittle orchards,
condemned to sleep -
silvery carpetbagger,
lain dense and steep.
She splits the sacred holler-thrust of wind
about each whetted turn and twist,
evaporating somber daydreams
from her primordial mist.

When Nature speaks,
she devour this thorny rime of old,
plunging new sprigs flanked
in pungent crusts of earthy mold,
her renaissance a chaste delight,
twittering suckled pheasants by twilight.
Awake and rise,
my children bare,
witness my nimble-graced thoroughfare,
Rehabilitate my destiny, in this earthly pool,
fattening milkweeds, carrion jewel.

Alas, Nature is hushed with fickle pride
and robust, desire foretold,
accomplished, revised,
silent shock and buzz of fireflies
aglow, the dangling drape
in sticky humid repose,
mingles thrushes wavering
near sandy bluffs as she blows,
thunderous at once, momentarily bemused,
unsettled perhaps, good-nature confused -
vigorous dance of life, a recommence,
without sustaining providence.

THE TELEVISION AGE

NBC presents the following program in color:

They sat affixed,
captive receiver
flurry of images
anesthetizing frequencies
awash in the perversities of life.
Their paralytic shock distilled
into nominal waves…
becoming less than zeroes and ones.
Emotions out of focus.
Soul of desire on remote control.

Not even the static of thought re-channeled,
all perspectives fair, balanced and impartial
skewed in postmodern pop-friendly clichés:
the forgotten spender
saturated in market share
consumer distilled into ratings
spent,
drained,
bemused…
amused no more.
If only they possessed a nerve of intelligence,
they might get up and change the channel.

It’s eight o’clock –
Do you know where your children are?

DEATH OF A SCIENTIST

One low gasp
-then two,
alert the attack.
Wheezing
thrashing,
unable to draw breath in,
between half swallows
of slow congealing phlegm.
Buckling at the knee,
a thunderous timber,
splits his Adam's apple
in two lightning thrusts.
Lids drooping,
lips tinted Robin-egg blue,
rosy-cheeked bloom
swept into chalk,
panic distilled between echoes…

“Help! Somebody!
Is there no one to help my husband?!”

He veered off into heaven,
beckoning Galileo’s swoop from the stars,
but saw only coal and the devil,
and died– a broken man,
with one eternal reminder,
and the cold dead hand of the universe,
closing his heart to her forever.

@Nick Zegarac 2006 (all rights reserved).

STAND, WHEN YOU CANNOT...

Stands alone -
oh, wretched clown
sifting through painted veils of obscurity,
wandering in floppy shoes -
a ghostly spirit
passing through granite and marble halls
juggling each perilous deliberation;
a balancing act in spangles
that gnaws and corrupts
the parallel bars.

Searching through the pungent muck
stale sawdust hallucinations,
cursing the after hours
that condemn these morbid chains
no strong man will break.
Wrapped between the myriads,
gaudy mirages
dedicated to each cardboard flight of fancy
or moistening sticky lashes,
oozing in discolored tracks -
my faded rainbow tears.

SHE AND THE SEA

She sat cross-legged on a white wicker couch,
bewitching spray of sea salt lapping under her nose,
and could almost conjure his proud silhouette
matted against the kaleidoscope of dusk,
darting along each velvet beach head;
turning, haughty strides, to wave her goodbye,
and a “see you later…after my swim.”

But that was long ago.
One thunderous moan from that ancient tide,
fastens the clasp on her memory box.
Too painful to think of him - even now,
wrapped in her luring tides,
and happily so, at first,
before clawing the sandy bottom
bloody fingers,
airless gasps,
praying, desperately pleading
to glean one last flicker of porch light
or soft smile through the kitchen window.
Damn it all!
She hated the sea.

MUSCLE TOUCH

Simmering heat of thimble sweat,
teases -
festering pricks in sliver shards
lain tight upon my skin.
To taste flesh for the very first time,
that rippling mass of thriving panic,
writhing sensation
taut, penetrating sinew
one jagged contour
traced into the next,
‘til frenzy lays waste
sharp little curves - relaxed
bouncing all these supple daydreams to earth,
living deep inside my core.

VOODOO CHILD

Came to him twice,
that winged gossamer devil-woman,
wild-eyed and curious,
her jealous flair ups masked,
surface innocence – personified;
the deep black vortex of those emerald eyes,
swallowing cautionary tales -
spreading the thick tropical malaise
pressed deep against hardening bamboo;
raven curls perched in ragged bundles,
thin-lipped dancing Isadora
her cold dead visage,
tap, tap, tapping wigwam thoughts -
sway and bent madly about her plunder.

Ghost flowers
decayed but not forgotten,
lie and lay their drunken perfume
upon splendiferous worshipers.
She corrodes beneath burdening shafts
pierced light filtering through,
darkened recesses that cannot bake away
the frigid pallor from possessed souls.
Tangled in sashay ropes of seaweed
her crusted barnacles dig a grave
measuring the moments in patient repose
with the tick, tock, ticking of painful notes
caught inside each fertile naked brain.

STARDUST IN DAYDREAMS

I met the velvet ghost of Cappucine,
her, quick light haunted steps,
sinking diamond tiaras
beneath twinkling sands.
Her pupils affixed,
as endless pylons of sapphire
swimming in unbalanced golden halos.

Wrapped in raspberry quilts,
we drank the ruby nectar from burgundy baths,
while sheets of taffeta fell
the sparkling diamond-chipped rains
that nearly drowned,
smooth and casting
soft mink shadows darting,
about one silvery kiss
and two eternal flames.

Then, all at once, I awoke anew,
startled as these resplendent dreams
melted into my cocoa
and spread the buttery smooth cream
of mellows about the stir, spoon, then pallet,
fell back into this swirling black bean pool
of daydreams for another world,
and the secrets of my darling.

STARDUST IN REELS

Dawn of sound,
birth of stage,
echo through me,
the golden age.
where celluloid deposes time’s natural order.

In the mockingbird, I do concur,
race the chariots with Ben-Hur.
the plane, from Casablanca, departed,
leave I, with the hero, somewhat broken-hearted.

Crosby, Hope and Danny Kaye,
King Kong clinging supple Faye Wray,
Tapping through showers with umbrella in grip,
luck be a lady?
just shoot from the hip.

Fanfare for Astaire,
and Rogers,
and Rodgers,
and Hammerstein.
Oh, what a beautiful morning,
to be younger than springtime,
in swing time,
top hat, white ties and tails.

Victorian ascot today,
Imperial Russia for ‘morrow,
This is the day, Judah,
in the shadow of Rome,
Oh, Auntie Em,
there’s no place like home.

Hefner, Hughes, Citizen Hearst…Kane,
Dorothy Dandridge, Auntie Mame.
Bogart, Cagney, Davis, Shearer,
draw the masses to their bosom nearer.

The world is indeed a stage.
Thuffering thuckatash!
I taut I taw a puddy tat!
Maggie the cat is alive.
In like Flynn,
Mickey Mouse,
Lombard’s spouse,
Gee, I wanna be a stooge.

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!”

Margaret Mitchell
Walter Winchell,
…these are a few of my favorite things.

SWASHBUCKLER

A-vast me hardies,
on galleon seas,
stoically trundling past forbidden lands,
sip the greedy poison of our fruit
intoxicated still - with thorny lute.
Behold, the witness plunder ruin
delving bony fingers
onto sweet dragoon
thrust deep into yon maiden breast,
hording her jewel encrusted chest.

Hi-jo!
A pox – what grows before…
Tis land,
that ripening familiar whore -
her tenacious craggy bluff
doth stretch proud into the sea,
making prisoner of all but thee.
Her gaping lips,
swallow port’s mouth
to lull these motley gadabouts
breeding, feeding carousing men,
beckoning the scullery wench,
and then,
again, cast off and kept afloat,
in the billowy sail of her petticoats.

We, to whom no home belongs,
extol the lonely praises
in salty songs,
to hearth and girl
an eternal pledge,
spends the maiden
from her chaste ledge.
Until at last there seems no more,
that can willingly appease -
a-vast, me hardies,
on galleon seas.