No Contact Cul-de-Sac
I’ve bent my outings down the tracks
Of bars you’d ask me to, now pocked
With gap-tooth cul-de-sacs.
What I didn’t pounce on
I mull in the bedroom, mince in dreams, flush,
You appear spot-lit on the pivot of my entrance.
Having weaned myself from your catalystic lipstick,
Today I was beat.
The ancient dam of dopamine rose, releasing memory’s
Undertow as you saw me pretending not to see you
Rushing through the lunch crowd, blooming from suits:
Black stockings up to skirt, turquoise blouse, hair a sleek new length,
Bare head cold-nose red, your hand hailing my face
Without contact as you spoke, words lopped
By opposite directions, my envelope’s pull, the clock
Awaiting your punch.
At my desk that incomplete
Sentence hangs, scrabbled without a play.
I’ll take a letter, resigned, kissed or unsigned.
I walk about trailing always
As look-alikes linger in the blotter,
Hoeing the tortured row of Time.
The Vandal’s Release
Decades removed from the oil and brush
of a marketly marked genius,
his cloth is hung in a pine rectangle:
Color long ground, bled, blipped over canvass
Amounting to a sloshing sea
and cloud shrouded mountain.
The scene abandoned to night,
as the velvet rope keeping contact from art
now lassoes the dark.
The flip of a switch, kick of filament
and the blade’s silver stroke
Frees the frame from its soul.
The pine holds what sags
like the flag of a nation that’s never been,
the rope still at attention
Before the broken landscape
And its nulled signature.
The Horsemen Ride to a 4/4 Time
Aristotle’s refrain was drunk
On fire-water, muted by wind
And spinning Earth, but when he went
His taste budded into four leafs,
Leading Augustine on a saintly chase,
Leaving his mistress
For wishes to be returned
With the City’s Golden Seal.
Broken at mass, our padded knees retract
Dreams of Perfection and cloud-made estates,
As we await Vivaldi’s seasoned Horsemen,
To rush the country club, screaming
Bareback for the incredulous Virgin.
Racquets scatter as snorting colts
Drag nets from fairway to bunker
Where we bury our beads
And give thanks to the moon, bleeding
A rhythm of sobering certitude.
Aaron Wiegert is a poetry editor for Drunk Monkeys webzine and author of Evil Queen, a chapbook from Budget Press. His work has appeared in: Poetry Salzburg Review, American Tanka, Indent Magazine, Tulane Review, South Carolina Review, Burner Magazine, and Antique Children Quarterly.