When a man sees two reflections
in the mirror of his cacoŽthes
as if built around sensory obsessions,
as if struggling with sexuality
or the brooding oppression of lust
like Sisyphus seeking relief
from ferocious winds, heís given
a glimpse of tragic pointlessness,
less exalted inertia like a shore.
He buries himself within himself,
clotted with the remnants of a dream.
Twin images blur the lines, & men
are no less fragile in gray space where colors,
as with hope, lose their reason.
Heraís music came by accidents
as red lightning beneath an apocalyptic sky.
I offered her songs like orange roses
off the celestial bush. They thrived for days
under careful scrutiny, her focus,
as she gave them attention they required.
When she let them fade, I replaced each
with a new bouquet, more fragrant in its nectars,
spilling out soma for the ears.
From my first electric guitar, a purple
imitation Stratocaster with gold-plated strings,
she watched & listened as my fingers
fumbled unfashionably over the chords.
She succumbed to (or seduced) every lyric
skipped madly across an untrained tongue,
tasting the ones that lasted:
limitless spices, the burning words
residing like garlic on my lips.
Hera & Simone accept the rituals,
falling victim to the rites.
They are Spanish love songs,
faithful but exhausted from their intrinsic power,
the dynamic passion of each performance.
The momentís merciless weight makes it
impossible to distinguish infatuation from fatigue.
Itís the royalty of romance that only a princess
marries a prince, but what of a prince
of thieves? We cheat our emotions with arrogance
akin to blue flames & a sulfur smell.
Our eyelashes burn away.
I hide in the umbra of this eclipse,
awaiting the return of light.
©1999 Ace Boggess
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