11:59 pm December 31, 1999
From my front steps I have a view
of the crazies
more exciting than Mardi Gras.
Old Margaret has thrown out
leftover spaghetti again, to dry
into crisp worms, that I always tell
her will never fool the birds. She walks
past me murmuring like some crazed
carnival bear. Her plush breasts
encased in a rancid purple sweater,
her greasy curls peering out
from under an aluminium beanie.
I'm not worried yet,
I've decided the blue mist between
me and the Baptist church down the street
is being engineered by the government
or maybe aliens. Still, before they get here
I'd like to try talking to Crazy Margaret
or ole man Benz one more time.
The thought makes me dizzy.
A chorus of singing drunks are heading towards the mist,
a lurching syncopated harmony
that gets the street dogs to howl and trail along.
I watch the carnival going down my
street and into the blue mist
in front of the Baptist church. I resent
that I'm wasting my thoughts on Crazy Margaret,
or Bob the neighborhood eunuch,
I admit, my thoughts are pretty meagre
compared to the wild display
of lost souls wandering in the street.
Like ole man Benz.
I wouldn't say we were always
on speaking terms, but tonight
he lifts his toupee to me and says,
"Hey!"
I nod and brush my hair out of my eyes,
wish it was auburn and curly
like in one of those old Italian paintings.
Memorable, at least, a beacon.
I search the sky for a trail of fire.
Too late my eyes catch water sliding
down the sides of the Baptist Church Steeple:
luminescent under the last full moon
before the crash
that annihilates us all
into blue Baptist mist.
A 2RIVER 'VIEW (Spring '97)
First Place poem- ILAPC
Sail Away
It is not enough to have the bottom drop
out, or gaping holes appear in the fabric
of your world, because nausea sweeps
you through that, but the blank wall of time
stark, bleak, stretched into murky dimness
your eyes can never penetrate, no chance
forever in fact, that, is what stops you,
kills the desire even for self-flagellation.
Yawning emptiness, knowing you will survive
not knowing why you should. Heavy cold
airlessness, not even self-pity can survive
that amount of barrenness. Worse yet,
when your eyes turn inward to delve,
dissect and review, blankness invades
there too. No pictures form, no breath stirs,
no sounds, no feelings of any kind to hold,
that is the final image: the empty boat
that carries you out to sea not caring,
not feeling, not even knowing when you leave
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Carol Borzyskowski
lives, works and writes in Winona, MN., a sleepy river town nestled between the mighty Mississippi and glacier
carved bluffs. She works at the Public Library there. Carol is married, has two children, and is the caretaker
of two Manx cats. Some of the journalsCarol has been published in include: American Poetry Monthly, Alpha Beat Press, Crone's Nest, Giltweasel, and Radiance. Electronic publications include: A 2River 'View, Eclectica, Moondance and Sunshine Street. |