Half Shade

Those bolts in your lobes

are the stoop rebels concede to peers.

We all find our muse by the cleave of what’s true,

satisfying sentiment and guidelines,

by rejecting the fading halo.

Its abandonment soothes, while at

the same time the ruse of a wrassle,

leaves heroics on a cube,

cut loose from the berg of achievement,

binoculars are reversed,

to search what is now adrift,

to keep at a distance,

while drawing false virtue.

Quiet Billboards

She barely curls back her torso to evade the clump of spit.

A brief look reveals no telltale chaw residue,

that could provide a gauche excuse,

from one that will never have an inkling of smudged mirrors,

that should be rubbed reflective.

The corner provides impaired vision,

by way of a vehicle that is top heavy enough,

to contain a sniper roost,

creeps into the crosswalk,

making access a circular maneuver.

Momentarily a vision reads from bottom to top,

a teleprompter knocked sidewise,

colored in with a fountain of sparks,

of urban assault vehicles profile-eyeing each other,

daring a full frontal gaze.

Cool elegance has been dismissed,

as she well knows, the urge to spite feels an answer,

but her upsmanship means nothing, thrice trumped.

Sharp wit and subtle putdowns have had the door closed on them,

by a foot supporting leather leggings.

14 months ago,

her Roman-nosed spouse led her to the placid, blue sky jaguar,

although his arm had been curled for her,

leaving box seats to French Pinot at the Down Below,

which couldn’t have been more up.

Within, a sense of the slightest encasing of uppity,

that felt like comfort, safety, and privilege (comsafilege),

pounded together as tightly as spiced veal.

This power where the indirect held no currency,

meant the wedding register was sincere,

and her niece would get the tattooed bowling ball.

In a display window as clear as gauze sat a sardine can survival kit.

Basement or backyard, she self-queried?

Ascribed Pendulum

Why my interest in the ascent to madness?

It’s the cliché that you’ve guessed,

if you weren’t thrown off by the clever twist on the adage,

that is the basis of all good poetry.

Is it civilization, as the uncliche say in terms that need to be pinned down, hemmed and penned in?

Comforting, but I doubt it.

An endless academic stint has taught me to pull from chemistry and the suburbs.

In my brain are two titian hued snakes whipping up against each others,

splashing in a depthless puddle,

straining to connect and sway together beneath the surface.

This process is multiplied thousands of times over,

until potions let them kiss briefly enough to momentarily still the waters,

and gleam escence of lumin, incand, phosphor and opal from the touch.

The morals of Aesop, Grimm, Seuss, bible and Walt D. formed my moral center that shuddered when near the haughty, breeding and careerism,

impelling my snakes to thrash the surf.

Tomorrow I will descend into the rational for another fable.

Paul Handley spent a career as a student and a student of odd jobs. He has a paralegal certificate, and attended law school for a year; has an MA, an MPA, and is ABD. He has driven a cab, scraped fish guts, sold meat door-to-door, Director of a truck driving school and worked in multiple other capacities. Paul has work included or forthcoming in Anemone Sidecar, Apollo’s Lyre, Burst!, Macabre Cadaver, the Maynard, Ophelia Street, Poe Little Thing, Potomac: Poetry & Politics, Red Fez, The Shine Journal, The Smoking Poet, and others.