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Illusions

  

Body and mind

touch. No pass-

ports involved.

********************

   

The Basket Man 

The Basket Man moved through a numbing aura

with a hunch of shoulder that appealed to he, and only he.

He cleaned his hands constantly, and then returned

to his hiding place, cradling the face of a wild animal;

glaring green eyes in his belly. The Basket Man

had marvelous eyes but shared them with no one:

he was like a selfish boy with a bag of cat-eyed marbles;

he couldn’t bear finger prints, alien whorls and ridges

upon he, or his possessions, instead, preferred the shoulder

of his basket. The Basket Man found much to his chagrin

that the critics underneath his fingernails, and in the folds

of his neck and in the shallow pond of belly lint, chattered

on whether he slumbered or wakened: “damned critics

won’t leave me alone.”

Many an evening, The Basket Man sat, quill in hand, composing

his memoirs. Because he lived in a basket he didn’t work

at the proverbial “big oak desk,”  or the  tiny “school kid’s desk”; 

not even an orange crate. He sat, instead, upon arthritic knees, 

balancing a legal pad into the long hours of the night.

So far he’d only come up with the title:  “Damned Critics

won’t leave me alone.” Hell, it was a beginning;

Thursday the 21^st  the Basket Man lay in a cocoon of chill

and sweat. Unclaimed, like a knife used in a murder, and tossed

casually between the gratings of a storm drain. Meanwhile,

“something, once anchored” roamed the house

seeking a way out.

Alien Agenda

When they look at you

like you’re an alien,

smile.

When they look at you

like you’re an alien,

don’t raise you antenna

and disappear.

When they look at you

like you’re an alien,

don’t make a break

for your flying saucer

even when being pursued

by an ugly torch-bearing mob.

When they look at you

like you’re an alien,

don’t forget

they may be the aliens.

When they look at you

like you’re an alien,

tell them your birth

certificate’s posted

on-line.

When they look at you

like you’re an alien,

tell ‘em your phaser’s

not set

on stun.

          When they look at you

          like you’re an alien

invite them to your planet.

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Incubator

I vomited the creature---

It swam in the toilet bowl.

I tried to flush the abomination,

but it refused to be sucked down the hole.

Tentacles, sprouting at will.

Dozens of rubbery arms whipping wildly,

water exploding,

because of this creature who had defiled me.

I jerked the bathroom door shut,

heard that thing thud on tile,

tenacious tentacles lashing out,

throat filling with bile.

And then my stomach cramped again.

Forced into puking,

I threw this new one into the microwave,

and gave it a good nuking.

Body and tentacles,

sizzling like bacon,

thought it was dead,

but was mistaken.

Opened the microwave door.

As I did, I prayed,

but found myself attacked

by mouths like razor blades.

Then began feeling more cramps.

This time two creatures

forced their way out.

I was weak, throat burning.

unable to shout.

Lay down on my side

on cold dead tile,

an army slithering from my mouth.

Vile!

Thousands of stinging cuts.

I wanted to scream,

I wanted to believe,

this was nothing but a monstrous dream.

When I woke,

I felt squirming inside me,

they had laid their babies,

Survival would be denied me.

They were growing,

being nourished,

I was the living, breathing, incubator,

and these monsters would flourish.

********************

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Glasses

The glasses

w/ those rectangular lenses,

they brought mathematics

to her eyes,

to the hump of her nose;

geometry to the crow’s feet,

the laugh lines.

 

She could immediately see

Einstein and Pythagoras

using her oval face as a chalkboard.

Working out theorems

formulas and proofs

that explained her.

********************

Sweet Addiction

Mister Eye, walking into the Disease Priest

Coffee Shop and Bakery “we make disease

sweeter and sweeter,” mutters one of the many priests,

carrying trays of diabetic delight, pouring cups

of coffee, stirring in  lumps of sugar and gulps

of cream. Mister Eye says not a word, merely watches

the smearing of goo over lips, the waggling of tongues

like acrobatic octopi;  “addiction is our bread and butter”

mutters the high priestess of tooth decay and amputation;

“blood sugars rise and blood sugars fall,” squeal a boy

and girl in training;

 

Mister Eye makes no eye contact,

instead orders the same cup of Joe: black, he has

had every morning since the invention of “sugar

sickness”. In the back room

one of the squealing trainees,

clutching a sugar cube,

is about to drop it in:

“don’t mess with that one,”

says the high priestess glumly. 

“He’s a watcher, that one.”

Mister Eye inspects his cup,

while watching the ruination

of another batch of human beings,

like a tray of burnt Cinnabons tossed in the alley

and gobbled by the diabetic dogs of the neighborhood.

********************

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Heard Over the Herd   

  

                                                             I am not the voice of the herd

I am not the voice of the heard

                                                             I am not the voice of the Heard

I am not the voice of the herd

                     (((HeARD)))

                                                             I am not the voice of the herd

I am not the voice of the heard

                                                             I am not the voice of the heard

I am not the voice of the herd

********************

What the drunk

in the back of the squad car said

while the officer kept his eyes

on the road

  

I’m the umbrella, man!

I’m your doppelganger

I’m the end of the world, you know

Like a hand full of saltines

crunched by a giant

I’m on fire, your Excellency

I’m the forgotten symbol of time and space

I’m the last explorer to return with the gold

I’m sailing away from society

In a galleon made of brown glass

And though you pirates

attempt to interrupt my voyage

I shall only begin again

I will embrace your green mats

I will embrace those locked doors

and terrible bologna sandwiches

I will stand still

for the snap shots and fingerprints

like Napoleon

on a hill

before a battle

I will associate with the hollowed out

dreamers

I will watch the marred men

drooling on concrete floors

I will share a rotting bowel movement

with the crusted toilet

I will accept and I will deny

and I will find you all useful

like napkins in a tree house

and you

you my scurvy friend will drive

drive endlessly through the night

like an abortionist

with a trunk full of fetuses

I will name my next ship

after your bargain with the devil

I will puke

in anonymity

and excrete in glory

I shall raise the other inmates

like limbs of flame

and we shall dance about

the house of justice!

********************

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