staring into the hell-house mirror
219 suddenly becomes a 187
another death by distortion
he can’t help but wonder
who allowed her eyes to enter
into the room
he dialed lust for murder
but the line went dead
as cold as the snow that speckled
the windshield like drops of love
frozen and fractured
during the long journey back
to the beginning…
he stared at it
wondering if it was as long as
the ones her friend whispered about…
back to the beginning-
blood trickles
down the side of his face
though he is surprised
that he has any left
the tears have sapped his veins
been on the rack for a long time
down deep where no one can see
brought up every now and then
and put on display-
today’s mannequin for madness
that reigns throughout the lonely castle
made from the plastic of
childhood toys molded and mangled
like memories that mold and mangle…
a staff made from cuervo gold
is the only thing that he can hold on to
his soul oozing through his fingers
like wax from a candle that can’t be
blown out
he stares at the gimmick in the mirror
and starts to cry…
back to the beginning-
issues of manhood and money
his face (from an old photo)
taped onto a counterfeit bill
small denomination
he knows that he’s worth more
but the bill-of-sale has faded
since 1619…
denomination
the caste of brethren
that he shares the room with
damned by paper-thin divinity
and devotees they pay love to…
The Muse Minefield 