an x-ray poem of that which might or might not be...

1950's film noir/ erotic art star, Bonnie Logan...

an x-ray poem of that which might or might not be...

I've chamber made
lonely ass portraits 
wives and daughters 
rain hungry water(s) 
who went about 
cavorting as ale maidens 
when they could get away 
with such delightful vice

this poem is for that woman 
who when wielding herself raw and ready
becomes a whisper turned tender ferocity

my bones, her bones: 
we were flesh once too
(an empty canvas, souls 
and noble gases, 
what passes us unseen)

what passes us unseen 
meaning to mean 
something to her or I 
I have a we 
in my head, does she...?

I am hiding myself 
in her brushstrokes 
here where horses 
are leaping over 
saddle fenced clouds...

she frame-tilts a sky 
twins the sun into perfect spires 
tells tolled tales of power to know 
belly skims a brim full of shadows 
and pieces of human stories 
to put back together...

destiny, she says, often calls, art too 
why, they ask, do I look back 
over my life as time passed 
as if I knew the question 
I have in mind 
has already 
missed a moment 
a scent, I might have wanted 
to hold onto, a little while longer...?

this is where artists, poets, 
strummers, steppers, tinkerers, 
dancers, acrobats, clown-ring-leaders, 
seers, preachers, ciphers, 
innocents, the guilty, the lovers, 
the fearful, the joyful 
and their dreams will coincide...

where they're ideas, 
wordless collides 
leaving peculiar fireworks 
for the particle physicists 
to unhide...

they have their fantastic machines
crawling the tides a closer fine 
to the whole 
of what a human soul 
needs to know... 

am I or is she 
always going to be 
seeking causeways 
between memory, 
decay, gases 
and new bones 
between our souls, 
this or any depot 
of destinations 
because my guess 
is what we see 
is always going to be
this something 
like my name...
something 
that she might 
or might not
want to know 
on the other side 
of that doorway...


EJR ©