Poetry—Fabrice B. Poussin
My Rolls and I
My Rolls and I we have crossed the country
on broad tires and great meals
why not splurge when you can travel
in the plush seats of a British giant.
We found the 100-foot yacht anchored
in the Frisco Bay shining with silvery glances
the envy of all those foreign passers by
Americans are so rich and lucky they say.
It was to be a journey around the world
with captain, servants in white and blue
a virtuoso chef in his artist laboratory
not to forget the media room down below.
Stops in every port to tan by the Hilton
savor delicacies only available
in restaurants with limitless stars
and purchase proof of our passage in gold.
Why do the rivers run black this dawn?
silver flows in slivers of shiny fluids
numb in the quietness of muffled thunder
it might be lava oozing from the deep.
Blades of grass too reflect the darkness
mirrors reaching for the cosmos like black steel
shards broken off the hopes of a burdened one
they dance a waltz with crystalline melodies.
Gifts to the heavens, images of distant stars
delicate petals of the ephemeral rose monochrome
membranes of infinite spaces between the realms
petals like clouds float into the stratosphere.
No peaks capped with gentle snows of virgin times
remain. Into the impenetrable ebony skies
summits disappear with just a few more glitters
as complete darkness envelops what once was her land.
One Million Years Ago Yesterday
A big girl now she recalls the first dress
purchased with money of babies sat
perfect for endless summers with boys
bare feet on sands so hot she cried.
Always willing arms protected her
when rains fell heavy onto the shore
lightning struck wild waves on the horizon
she begged for another day to come so bright.
Little stars crowd her memories as they fall
innumerable from distant worlds
she cannot assemble the fragments
of moments lost in a shapeless cosmos.
The large mirror tells a precious tale
as she stands in earnest by a jealous star
so little seems different for the aging child
woman of centuries and universal truths.
Tic toc tik tok
They live at the altar of their newest derision
rushing to the smart device and a spot in the sun
enthralled by their own image in cyberspace
centers of the only universe they care to know.
They live you see an incredible life
in the absence of thought or reflection
posing as if statues of the classics
Mona Lisas of a long gone renaissance.
Soon their charade will adorn the fragile walls
of binary fragments long enough until another
surges with a lower cut top and more for all to see
moving pathetic steps as if a grandiose dance.
Long ago the spirits vanished leaving souls devoid of humanity
now they roam the membranes of a strange galaxy
unable to find anchor in even the shallowest of grooves
upon lines of a story written on virtual parchment.
Time clicks away at a faster pace
out of reach of these odd creatures
who know nothing of human existence
and seek fame in five seconds of an awkward dance.
Many like them live a life of make believe
empty shells in the flesh of little starlets
they smile and scream to be the ones everyone sees
only to return to the dust that never rose above the sewers.
Sunday funnies are little compared to
the actors so well-rehearsed of
the long aisles to a dark altar.
The night before they drank on the gambling floor
hidden by neon colors and unlikely covers
home so late their eyelids still droop.
In suits fancier than on their wedding moments
meant to knock them dead on interview day
they seem strangers to themselves for an hour or so.
Mouthing words to century songs
their stomach scream for a break
soon lunch with temporary friends of the cross.
The dark armor and tie weigh heavy on the soul
as the summer dress is too tight on the breast
they cannot wait to shed what they call truth.
When the sun rises again, it will be an office
and memories of a sabbat well spent
while the giant screen screamed touchdown again.
For a moment they believed, and they swore
for another they almost were certain
that they gave the appearance of sincerity.
Shells for five days, hollow for the nights
sixty minutes of the week fixes all they claim
while corpses rot on the path to their redemption.