Matinee Idol

I read something about this, somewhere.

Thinking it was Jonathan Miller,

Not sure.

 

Did you ever read a book,

Entranced by the protagonist,

Then go to the movie,

And feel, well, disappointed?

 

Mirrored image.

Tracing the territory of his face.

 

Not quite right.

Not right at all, actually.

Miscast, you think.

At first.

 

Etched furrows.

Hollowed plains.

Seen through those gauzy appraising eyes.

 

The actor is too old,

Or something.

Can’t put your finger on it, exactly.

 

Men can get by with all that.

Right?

 

What’s happening isn’t about putting

Pierce Brosnan in a Steve McQueen role.

No, it’s something else.

 

But how are we to see as seen?

 

We are entranced by the idea

Of that man in the book.

Not some pinned down image,

Or some actor we cast in that role.

It’s the very idea of him.

 

Try this.

Step out of the skin box,

look back at Him.

There.

 

Seeing that idea embodied is the problem.

Always too confined, too small,

Too actual.

Doesn’t matter who they cast.

 

Not the gravitational center,

Not larger than this so called life.

 

When you invest a character with all that,

You are bound to be disappointed when

He actually shows up.

 

Scuttle back.

Hunker down.

Your martini shot coming.

Soon enough.

 

Anyhow,

I just thought

That an interesting idea

To throw out.

 

Enemies

Like clattering little children,

Seeking my attention.

 

Picking pockets,

Grab and take.

 

My so-called enemies.

 

Whining hovering bugs,

Endlessly tagging along.

 

Remember- don’t care what they think,

Else they’ll have you by the balls.

 

Handy mantra, don’t you think?

 

Like the elephant swatting away the fly.

Who’s the big shot in that parable?

 

Ha.

 

Then I see Him.

Striding through.

Scattering the noisy ones.

 

They carry torches and pitchforks,

He’s got the blade.

Edged beyond sharp.

 

Not coming to seize what’s mine.

Or to heap me over with foul insult.

He’ll leave that to the suckerfish.

 

Slick words fall away.

Resolve all shadow and mist.

 

Cutting me just enough for the others to feed.

Taking his host just to the edge, never quite over.

Isn’t that the way?

 

My well spent youth in front of that magic box.

Hour upon hour of shuffling mummies, modeling my way.

So demons never show themselves in the mirror, I know.

 

But why is He there?

Every.

Single.

Time.

 

The virus beyond the scientist’s ken,

The monster always under the bed,

The beast that will stop swimming only at time’s end.

 

The enemy I could not hold any closer.

The Crime No One Can Abet

Empty page.

Enemy territory.

 

Ferocious solitude.

 

Really, why?

Go be busy.

Live in that zone of frantic illusions.

 

Still you sit.

And still you wait.

 

Just open the vein, he said.

Easy enough.

Until intention strangles her creation.

 

Mesmerizing mocking cursor.

Blink, blink.

Tick, tock.

The pulse of your palsy.

 

Sitting on the fault line between stillness and surrender.

 

Hustling the game only one can play.

 

Performing the crime that no one can abet.