FIASCO IN WHITE

Biting,
bottom lip blistered
the repose of a tiara cocked
just so…
or maybe a little to the left,
as the happy gaggle
maids a’plenty,
preen and tease their Sunday best
made garish and contrite -
abysmal mediocrity
mired in the spectacle of it all.

“It’s my day.”
Whispering nonchalance,
forgetting the man’s part,
wax plugging reason,
laid deaf on the only appendage
untouched –
virgin ears.

Acutely tuned in
to the one that tells –
of a night...
indiscretion penetrating,
stretching the blissful hush
to a snap of gartered playtime.

“Be quiet!” she barks,
grand dame guillaume
rearing its foreshadowing head
through the paper thin crepe of veil,
“I’ve forgiven him that!”

At least
…until the honeymoon wears off.

Papa always said,
'women make the most peculiar brides',

…and now I remember why.

@ Nick Zegarac 2006 (all rights reserved).

IF I DIE BEFORE I WAKE

When the sacred scorch of Valhalla
sears its grand complexity
in molten universals
and truth,
this unworthy shall not pass -
unnoticed.

Across the finite rim of time
caught in playback,
yore travels rekindled
from the vantage of stained maturity -
affirmation of my sins,
may clear the scarred slate of all expectations.

Up the craggy slope, shall I climb
where sinking pebbles
devour each granule,
of hourglass sand -
sifting between those who acquiesce
and others
effortlessly passing
from favor into the abyss.

That greatest of poisons
sublime enriched nirvana,
retrofits a scope upon my sojourn,
its aim affixed,
elevating to exaltations
blissful and blind,
binding my soul to each continuum
in the ever after.

Eclipsing pain,
with saintly parades,
darkly thrust
and drawing from impaled flesh
these imbedded thorny selves,
transfixed, then cast off
until all desires and aspirations,
the ballast of youth
unworthy to this succession,
spits forth from evangelical mouths
into Plato’s forgotten cave
of earthly Xeroxes.

@Nick Zegarac 2006 (all rights reserved).

FIST - the musical

Graduated –
from private failure
to public nuisance.
Imploring each passer by,
to dip tanned palms
into pockets lined,
incredulous success on the march.
To and fro,
from cozy corners of a world,
I have never known -
lazily drifting
past the ever-changing focus of life.
You see…
when people like me…
well, we’ve had all the bad things happen…
and when the good finally comes
it seems so much better.

So,
for scraps off your table,
I’ll warble the myth,
compassionate embraces
from my fellow citizen.
In this little place
full of big adventures
I’ll clench stiff digits
about well-plucked chords,
in lies and trade,
my meandering soul
for a cheeseburger…
or coffee…
gin poured in kind,
from brown papered sympathy
between teeth yellowing
on the butts cast downward
from your glittering lips,
and drink in the moment –
or two,
of what it must feel like
to dance merrily obtuse
about metropolitan streets
instead of banging
this tired worn fist;
cracked chalky remains,
beaten into cold
wet,
unfeeling
pavement.

@Nick Zegarac 2006 (all rights reserved).