"Quatorzain alambiqué"

"C'est un esprit des plus confus, alambiqué, ce que nos pères appelaient un diseur de phébus."

Marcel Proust

Bookselling is not so much a career / as a job without much recognition / (unless you don't mind patting your own back), / but it keeps your nose clean and life in gear // though you'll never afford to buy a house. / And if you choose to blame indecision / as the culprit behind your total lack / of direction, (in a world we create // for ourselves, alone in search of a spouse / a mate for life, a husband or a wife) / you won't get any closer to your goals // without accepting your faults as your fate, / your accountability as the knife / that severs the spines of booksellers' souls. //

12.31.13

"Uncertainty"

12.23.13

Beyond the arc of perception,

out of the corners of my eyes,

I see people without disguise,

I see beyond their deceptions.

My insights are not projections,

I see the truth beyond their lies, 

masks drop, for only I am wise,

their ignorance begs inspection.

To witness their uncertainty

when opportunity presents

an open door to fix the past.

To bear this sense of gravity,

this trace of solemnity, tense,

nervous, uneasy, empty, vast.

Sonnet (without rhyme or reason) ~ 10.27.13

His hand grasps the clasp of her gold necklace, the peach-fuzz hairs on the back of her neck run cold down her spine from the heat his fist emits with a lateral twist, she chokes then gasps for air, falling forward, she trips and breaks the clasp, her necklace disappears along with the culprit, she sees nothing through her weeping emerald island eyes.

Sitting outside along the window ledge, she ponders the meaning of the attack, other than lacerations on her neck the police find not a shred to convict anyone of the crime, no evidence, a cold case, the woman falls to her death. 

Condensation ~ 9.25.13

Mr. Gabidar blows the angel's breath out 

of the top of the soda bottle 

before taking a swig of ginger ale. 

Once he releases the condensation,       he feels secure his heretical ways

find the irony in sacred beliefs.

For Bibles spontaneously combust   when he forgets to use a yad to read, 

pages turn to ashes with a light touch 

and a small conflagration may occur especially in "the House of the Lord."   For lightning longingly waits to inflict grievous bodily harm, if not to strike 

him dead, however, he chooses to live.