I think a poem ends when it answers itself; however, it may have resolved nothing.
©Weaving My Future From My Past
All Rights Reserved
He complained I pissed on his corn flakes.
No! It was he who aimed his dick
as if I was a target in the snow and
drilled his piss-poor attitude into my chest.
Sometimes laughing uproariously,
sometimes weeping, sometimes running
and sloshing the red from my wine glass,
I turned in my painter’s brush and descended
into darkness and bowed to the iconic
figures of lovers past: clowns, actors,
artists, entrepreneurs, boisterous braggarts,
womanizers melded into a cast of characters.
I was weaving my future from my past
dreams, fantasies, and myths and some
alarmingly autonomous aristocrats who
were truer to life than super hero super humans.
I paid a fortune in words to get a grasp
on my feelings so I could think and see
that through the interaction, pieces would come
together and could hold a kaleidoscope of relations.
No longer suspended in ambivalence,
I continue to be attracted to double mindedness;
I am Atlas unburdened from the weight of others
in my imagistic life — I will be a woman at the top,
and then, maybe I can actually piss on
on someone’s cornflakes and walk away
remembering the first poem I fell
in love with and let it become my mantra.