PURE BOLOGNA & COLD CUTS

Sublime torture -
compacts the casing of her mind
behind the deli counter -
her inner most insecurities,
wedged in subtle greasy perversions
of frigid-fingered anxiety,
as she slips the Genoa
back under the flap of counter display.











Anticipation,
for the thick-necked stranger,
threatening to choose;
plump finger pressed stout
propping corpulent flesh -
double chin ground
into a heavy jowl drape,
as fresh -
as stripped intestine.

His thick index
appropriately points to ham,
her back turns
imagining the sickly engorged mound
of his portly cheeks swollen.

“Will there be anything else?”

She know the lid’s off the cream
as the chubby gent leers,
coins tossed into his waiting meaty palm
coo dreaded honey
from flabby-flapping lips -

“Hey baby, how’s yer Assegai?"

PRIMAL INTERPRETIVES

Primitive urges paint a Messianic rainbow,
blood-noted bliss -
seems to honey fairly drip
in robust pagan lust songs
straining my explorative flailing limbs
about this incandescent sun-drenched countryside.
The amber wine slovenly surges
betwixt my meticulous wrinkles.


Purified in turn
tender-kissed and apple-ripe
inflamed against the shimmer
of your passively stimulated heart,
until another precocious attack of ancient hunger
awakens my impatience
to stamp out the beat,
proud melodies spackling the tombstone of Isadora…

For only she can resuscitate
that fatal-light snap of scarf
caught taut and final
about the dizzying spokes -
unleashed by artistry gone wild.

CORNFIELDS AT SUNSET

I walk the cornfields at sunset,
to remind my footprint upon earth,
stuck, staring upward
into epiphanies of twilight
as dried weeping bowers
obscure my view of heaven -
their caustic stalks, loosely rustle
the ripe pumpkin autumn breeze
defiantly planting shrivel roots
beneath the dust of my dragging heels
dug deep and clumsy.

I taste their husk,
pondering immanent eclipse
from this pendulum of time
distilled into dying minute particles
of disturbed powder -
tattered remnants of musty hair
swooning against cooling beads
born off my sweaty brow
caught stiff by solemn gusts,
in worship-less truncated memory,
with only the specter of youth cackling ahead,
and suddenly realize,
I walk the cornfields alone for the last time.
@Nick Zegarac 2006 (all rights reserved).

THIS OLD HOUSE AT SUNSET

This old house at sunset
is a picture postcard from another era.
Its lazy shady promenades
defiant Pythagorean
recessed in gingerbread
no right angle ever knew.
A craggy lion’s head
tarnished brass ring clutched
between gritted teeth,
provides that subtle nod to propriety -
this valueless world, unaccustomed
to its decadent grace.

I pause, to toddle the lazy violet-eyed veranda
breathing from restorative juices
limpid bowers of honeysuckle rose
clinging an instant welcome
or sad parting song to parlor game youth -
when Vyuga horns chirped noisily
and the polite clatter of hooves
put to tap on cobblestone
pronounced the arrival of our daily milk.

Does anyone else yearn for this age?
Its haughty aristocracy,
building kitty-corner beacons
polite monstrosities,
dipped in civic pride,
and the dirty overalls and paintbrush
that plied delicate colors
echoed in dainty gaslight.

“How do, Mrs. Cartwright…”
and “How well your daughter looks today”
the bloom of Black-eyed Susan framing
her amber-kissed angelic smile
imbedded in twenty-four karat locks
and the convivial ‘come hither’
for this young man
diligent and beaming from my portico.

AND TALLULAH SENT HER CAR FOR ME

I charmed my way
through her string of pearls,
chantilly, odious thick
with forgotten perfumes -
as a stylish coquette or parakeet
preening cocked robust feathers
spread before her blush randy boudoir.
Within,
without,
and not much consideration,
for self evasion
on how many men
been before,
How many then?
How many more?
Quenching my desperation
in rancid little bubbles
flat champagne of youth elapsed -
any glass slipper will do,
but the open-toed need not submit,
or sell short
perchance,
per hour,
seeming gratitude
turned under thin-lipped crocodile tears
and Tallulah sent her car for me.

TRAVELS BY NIGHT

Pressed against my pillow
I pave the loose winding road
between meandering temples,
and hallucinate faint emerald meadows
where aristocrats casually
preen and daydream;
to the even keel
time’s seldom remiss
setting golden sway
of gothic yesterday,
caught briefly
in retiring postcards
of jaundice daylight,
- exchanged
shimmering dimpled moonlight
refracts across a crestfallen silver lake.

I see a spirit with long satin gloves,
pretending to be,
her arms outstretched for a suitor
joining her momentarily –
cool and refreshed as his steam bath
off the court,
secure and stolid
and so unaware that none of it can last,
‘cross broadening wooden slats
hard times ahead,
barons debate
while their ladies take up a collection
in more affable thoughts.

…and unexpectedly,
no longer is my mind denied
by too many lack of opportunities
for that forgotten, beckoning rest,
with utter chaos from oncoming headlamps
strike full my brow
catching and disoriented,
by the sharp burst of prelude
met on impact
crumpling the darkened corners beyond
what only my eyes had seen.

@Nick Zegarac 2006 (all rights reserved).

MANIC MUNCHIES...FOR THOUGHT

At the behest of greatness
I dip the ore of my anxiety
into your excited hands
outstretched
forgiving,
and beat the fist of my well born intensions
into half baked schemes
predicated on the frenzy of fame,
money, not mine -
fleeting power,
made real only within stiff corruption
daydreams remade
in concrete logic.

There are so many kinds of riches…
only one is gold,
the rest a tinny echo;
of the boy I was -
man I used to be,
conflicted but pure,
and genuine as cucumber dip
without the curdles
of sellout sweat
mingling with your cream cheese.

Bite down -
Hard!
…and measure the length of fame,
money,
and power replete
by my girth of intentions
cut off at the pass.

MODEL BEHAVIOR

Lights.
Music.
Fashion.
She descends,
half starved
a vanishing wisp
dissolved in flashbulb adulation.
Giraffe-like strut
swallowing foot lamps
and one amber spot
cocked just above the collar
belying her chalk white
cocaine and death mask visage.

Eye brows tweezed, isosceles
and vexed by puckering stomach
growls pursed tight
against bee stung lips –
hair tossed about
in knotted frustration
at the tryouts.

Designer bone rack
for the jet set.
Everything –
but luck, happiness
and reputation
in hasty jaunt by her side;
the wherewithal to pour -
not over eight by tens -
but gravy, sweet and sour
as she feels thin lesion silk
sausage casing
slide up, then down
her shallow ribs.

She could kill for that Ford contract
or a cheese burger…
whichever appeared first
before her cold greedy hands
to squeeze and devour.

Lights.
Music.
Stilettos poised
digging deep into her pockets
to bring up lint,
cotton, hay and rags
and that fetus
her 94 lbs. could not carry to term.