The Worst

Cover the mold

of crusty experience

with a blanket.  Blunt

the accusing finger.

Let's hope the best

is yet to come.

That was a then-ago,

the old self torn down

by numerous literary

reconstructions, fresh

questions.

The door slams shut

with such force that

the glass cracks, a space

I will not enter again.

Something like a new 

person has grown up in

the corner, just out of focus,

blurry face,  new purpose.

 

Downward

spiral, down, further.

The text and image denote

an image,

lines of the figure sucked

into vortex.

Like political debate,

like the grave.  Swirls

of experience line up

around him.  

Large-eyed, he is moving

ever down, past what

used to be, reality

bent by the light.

Sub-Personality

And did you know

that beneath the polite

surface I have polished,

another, more critical

person hides?

It is not that I am

harboring a fine sense

of disdain.  It is simply

that I have learned the space

between mind and mouth

and how to use it.

One does not wear one's

heart on the outside,

one does not breathe each

bit of air externally.

There are organs of idea,

ontology, and performances

that are best held in check

for polite conversational

purpose.

 

Self-Congratulatory

Can you place

the smile in a dark closet?

I hardly think so.

It is a clap on the back,

devoid of that awkward

patting that suggests:

Will this contact end?

 

Cutting Corners

The town used to seem

immense, sprawling.  We

were not aware of the way

road connected to road.

Directions switched in the crisp

February air, images from

a few years ago, shops now

erased by the accumulation

of months, building up the way

snow kisses distant mountains.

Perhaps it is the vantage 

of a hotel room on the eighth

floor, overlooking the concrete

landscape, hemmed in by

those mountains, that finally 

reveals our true navigation.

JD DeHart