Ralph Monday- Three Poems

Narcissus and Orpheus Hangout

An unlikely pair to become confidants,

a songbird, self-lover in reflected

                                                water.

For the modern age they are like gamblers

in a casino spinning the slot machine

                                                for

lady luck to appear in swishing skirt

and pearl necklace. They would prefer

                                                the

smoke-filled barroom, any vacuumed

mask to hide behind, for that is their

                                                nature,

one of underworld moments continually

running from the milk-filled sun.

                                                Here

they sit having a little wine, a good smoke,

reminiscence about presenting garlands

                                                of

roses, sweetmeats to all the pouty-lipped

things that they entranced

                                                when

they lived in the light like two geese

fluffing feathers before the long migration

                                                south.

Narcissus knows they are not so different,

like twin contrails following a plane

                                                toward

an inevitable destination. He says,

if we could get above ground one more

                                                time

you would be like Sting or Jagger playing

the gig and oh how the groupies would

                                                flock

to the show. You would be a god, man,

and use your head in more ways than

                                                one.

But why would I do this? I love only

one woman that the gods decree cannot

be mine.

Illusion. That which is dead is dead.

You can never go back to that which never

                                                was.

For me, I seek only the hunt and those

who can find no reason not to eat from a

                                                forbidden tree.

Narcissus Revisited

This, boys and girls, is a tale about

Narcissus. A broader spectrum, bigger

brush, revisionist history put out like a

child’s tale, easy to understand and sweet

dreams.

So here’s the tale kiddos. Once

upon a time the most beautiful

lad in all existence (in his mind)

was forest wandering in just a

rap funk.

He was lonely,

he was depressed,

he was sad—he had

no Facebook page for others to

marvel at his perfection,

no mate,

for no lass could match

his beauty.

He knew he should be a politician,

president even,

movie star,

or a rocker

like Leo Mick—destiny to be adored,

admired, looked up to, maybe even

get a doll named after him.

Thirsty and miserable as a guy who

threw away the winning lottery

ticket, he stooped to drink from a pristine

pool.

And lo! like the angels’ epiphany

at Christmas time, like a blue-light

special firing up the show, like a

virgin about to be deflowered,

as Narcissus bent to drink

what he saw peering back freaked

him out like the clown on America Horror

Freak Show.

Disfigured.

Distorted.

Skin burned and

crinkled like a

70 year old beach babe

who didn’t use high enough

SPF, a hunchback like

some comic figure in

Monty Python—oh

the horror the horror cried

Marlow, this heart of darkness

cannot be.

A wise man who looks like

Yoda comes hobbling along,

takes one look at poor Narcissus,

tells him that it will take a hell

of a lot of therapy to fix this—the

dark side of the force is strong,

but maybe some good night cream

would help.

Brews up postmodern potion,

new age dream.

Not what Narc baby wanted to

hear. He called on Castaneda

who used a bit of peyote to go

into the inner realm who called

up don Juan Matus from that

place where time and space

have no significance.

The Yaqui sorcery said I can sorta

fix this, but here’s the deal:

You go to sleep and when you

wake up everything will be cool

as a cucumber on a hot summer day.

But, nothing lasts forever, and if

some of the old seeps through to

others, little by little my spell will

wear off.

Cool, said Narc, and slept.

don Juan brewed up a juice

worthy of MacBeth, poured it

all over the sleeper like slathering

honey on toast.

The next morning at the pool

Narc gazes in. Staring back is a

face as beautiful as a swan, a turtledove,

a bird in both hands.

He is happy.

He is ecstatic.

He is in love, baby.

Just wait till the world sees him now.

He’ll own every babe around as easy

as putting pennies in a piggy bank.

Hits the nostalgia bars, disco scene

first. Dancing away like John Travolta

until one girl says what’s wrong with your

ear?

Nothing nothing I am perfect!

Grooves on the lounge lizard scene

taking in that sultry music until

the waitress says what’s wrong with your

nose?

Nothing nothing I am sublime!

Tries a vintage 1940s bar where a tribute

group plays the Andrews Sisters.

What’s wrong with your face?

Nothing nothing I am loved by all!

He goes home and stares in the mirror.

His face is peeling away like the

emperor without his clothes,

Mama mama! he cries. This cannot

be. I am the most beautiful of all.

He has no fairy godmother to call upon,

his supply has abandoned him.

Deep in the forest the wicked

witch smiles at his misfortune,

stares into her mirror and says,

mirror mirror on the wall,

who is the fairest of them all?

The Narcissist

This is what they do, in old buildings

quilted by dirt, or in the nitroglycerine

heat of a pounding bar, at home or

abroad, in manic moments of complete

wrong electrical wiring, the target

honed as sharp flint, seen as the Prince

or Princess flickering by on the movie

screen behind their eyes that is their life,

you become the gold to crack their dross,

you are the perfect rock to steady their void.

She will say—there is a field that I know, a

perfect arena out beyond right and wrong

that only the special can know.

                                    I’ll meet you there.

But the garden is full of sharp stones

painful to walk upon. If you bleed a bit

at first you don’t notice, entranced by the gilded

canopy weaved all about. When she bends at the

pool to gaze at her reflection emptiness

stares back. She turns to you and smiles, a world

without empathy, Germany in World War II.

She would like for her scar tissue to be cut away,

but knows not the disease.

She will say—I am never nurtured enough.

That field is only for me

                                    not for you.

Always always the victim, the outcast, tattered

scarecrow on the edge of the field, abandoned

to birds, to air, to earth and dirt, the way that

you will be abandoned, devalued like an old

doll, a shipwreck moldy and sea-grown on

artic bottoms.

She will think—one apple from the basket is never

enough. I must eat my fill of all that is desired

                                    for this is what I deserve.

Fictions are transparent glass fables told

in looking for the reflected image that never

materializes—Aesop race toward her Zeno mind

that Achilles can never win for beguiled

witchery is complete.

She will think—this pet has been groomed too long.

Reality is what I feel, what roses that I make, and now

                                    the Prince goes back into the pond as a frog.

As Dante’s centaurs, she races away, behind a river of

boiling blood. There are many arrows left in in this

false Diana’s quiver.

Many targets in the field.