One Less Egg To Fry

© One Less Egg To Fry

Eyes like a snake’s, she pinned him

With her glare and frosty smile.

A soul like an empty museum,

One hand on her hip, the other

Flicking the ashes from a

Rolled smoke, and cocking her head,

She exhaled a wheezing breath.

She was ready for murder.

He came from the old boy school

Of past lives’ expectancies;

An object lesson for her

In kindness and honesty?

No. He never showed her

Anything but a hollow,

Steel frame containing his lust…

And valueless, devoid love.

Critical of clothes she wore,

Her every movement, and

All she said and did, his weak

Lips punished her. It began;

Progressive  manipulation.

He changed too slowly to alarm.

Family called less; friends dropped off

Like petals from a dead flower.

Was it last night she dreamed of

Something sexual? How long

Had it taken to recognize

She was working her way up

To a boxer’s practice bag?

Sweating came from more than

hiding from a reckless, sweltering

Sweltering Louisiana sun.

Today, without a tinge

Of melancholy, her eyes

Slanted like those of a snake,

Her smile defrosted, she flicked

Her smoke, reached for her weapon,

He rearranged himself and smirked.

Took one long stride toward her.

“You don’t have the balls to shoot…”

All Rights Reserved

Mimi Wolske

Poetry: Once Upon A University Drive

Memories. 

The hottest ticket in town.

Still art, dancing and bleeding poetic life.

© Once Upon A University Drive

Leaning on a crutch of photos,

Vivid and pale ghosts from my past

Dance around me tinted with gaiety,

Nonchalance, and somberness,

Bringing shadowed and vivid memories

Once again ambrosial or unsavory.

Prone on spots in time, I linger;

Fifty values of gray hues covering

A wistful heart’s pale blue floor blanket

As lighter chromas of gray framed

Outside my window come singing stormy

Songs written by a factious wind.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Poetry: ©The Wind Scratching My Window Reminds Me, from Letters I Never Sent to You

©The Wind Scratching My Window Reminds Me

from Letters I Never Sent to You

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

She took the horse sailing again. Well, the three-year-old has horse panic attacks every time he gets near a plane.

I pressed one of the flowers, from the bouquet you sent, between the pages of a large book the way you used to press my body into anything that resembled an ocean of sheets.

The flowers are so beautifully pastel, so fresh, so recently cut, they remind me of how moonlight lit your face and stuck like pollen, or like an ocean being beached.

I wonder, do you plunge your face through that sun-deprived skin to search for lost intentions or have you abandoned them, one and all?

The rain began falling just now. It’s welcome and if I were younger, I would go outside and dance in the desert heat-blistered white drops. Instead, I’m where I prefer to be as I write another letter I will never send, lounging on my chaise as deliriously happy as Cleopatra on her barge and sending you all the love she freely and openly gave to Mark Anthony.

As always, I end with All My Love.

Fifteen Stitches

What screws us up most in life is this picture we have in our heads of how it is suppose to be. What really happens is the one left behind is painted out of the picture even though that person is clearly equal and a collaborator.

© Fifteen Stitches

chaos spilled across the paper moon

opening the window and abandoning

the weights of life he found inopportune

fall into the arms of sweet dreams

the vigilante air held hostage

loving words she dared not utter

he misunderstood fragments of shared moments

and incomplete life puzzles

kneeling in the cathedral of him

collecting and saving broken-heart stitches

the way a child keeps fireflies in a closed jar

she longed for another lullaby

by Mimi Wolske, American author, artist, Renaissance Woman

All Rights Reserved

(painting: Don't waste your tears by Catrin Welz-Stein)

© Guest Starring in My Life This Year—

He said we were no longer parallel...

Well, duh! We’re a-cute angle now.

© Guest Starring in My Life This Year—

You. Your theatrical presence so intense,

It is almost blinding, my Dear.

The disease of love you dispense

Puts me in danger of the contagion,

but I’m dying to be weakened by you.

Please, let us destroy the weapon

They used to destroy my faith in you.

By Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

(painting by Malcolm Liepke)

© You Are My Favorite Self-Indulgence

Long distance relationships never work, the colloquial wisdom goes.

Not true, according to a small but growing number of social science studies. Long-distance relationships are, in many ways, stronger than relationships between couples who live together or close by, shows a new study published today in the Journal of Communication.

The edges of our distant love are softened in

the streaks of the heated blur that disguises

the passion demanded by our naked bodies.

You have turned me into a kissing masochist and

I still find it amazing you can make me dance

from miles away and change my world with your lips.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

(painting: RENE  MAGRITTE, Love from a Distance)

©Rules of The Game for A Windup Girl in A Dystopian World

Each of us is our own novel 

until our very last page, no one...

not even us...

knows how our novel will end, 

otherwise, who'd want to read it

It seems everything has fallen into place;

not quite what I had in mind,

but, nonetheless, I suppose it’s mine.

And how disgraced I might be

if I went where I pleased and

toppled all that has fallen on me—

only to suffocate underneath.

For those battered and broken

over time, I remain a mystery,

someone who lives alone with

nothing vying to grip my mind.

Endless soiled linens falling—

the devil threw us into the abyss,

the height dependent on the age of

the stains on our gowns.

I look up, passed my rising breath,

to the place where I might forget

my guilty naiveté and dry my

flooded eyes with tears of the lost.

I am Alice out of Wonderland and

there are rules of the game for a

windup girl in a dystopian world.

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Swallowing A Widespread Carpet of Burnt Umber and Sienna

©Swallowing A Widespread Carpet of Burnt Umber and Sienna

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Is there a way to swallow

the sands of the desert

without becoming the desert?

A habob storms in, runs away.

Your footsteps are no longer

seen; the feel of you beside

me suddenly disappears...

Left are the dust devils

carrying your memory.

After years, it was your

spirit I let inundate me.

Now when the wind picks up,

I feel the grit of the desert dust

and swallow the sounds before

I sink into the widespread

carpet of burnt umber and sienna.

Mimi - Mona Poetry: ©Two Is Not The Aurora Borealis Draining The Ocean of Red

©Two Is Not The Aurora Borealis Draining The Ocean of Red

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Your heart,

an acorn

in the night sky,

became

surreal...

broken reality

stored by hopeful

lovers

in alabaster jars,

hidden behind

a crest of lips

filigree-etched

on an altar,

possessed

by the gods

and blackened

by their fire.

My alien bones,

in the universe’s

cracked mirror,

lay beached

just beyond

the sea’s foam,

crushed,

multiplied

like so much

scatological

obscenity

collected by

beachcombers

for you—

saved to net—

another

unseen

gamboling

sylph

inked and pinned

into the boxed

collection

of ancients

from the air

to be revealed

in this high-tech

low-battery life;

my fluid

coagulated

like the dust

in my mouth...

a mouth

that once

ranted

my dirge

for freedom.

There is no

universal will,

no will for a

universe

masturbated

from your last

test

-a

-ment:

a hieroglyphic-

painted

conch

standing

the test of time,

left to testify that

the micro-waved

third planet

will be left

disinherited.

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: Playing A Lover's Game

      

©Playing A Lover’s Game

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

She looked up; I looked away.

Such beauty, there was no stopping

my curiosity. I gazed her way again.

I should have been a gentlemen,

refused to let her stand, not permit

her to lean against the back wall—

almost hiding in that corner—

rocking gently with the motion of the train.

Her dull, curly, blondish-dyed locks

fell low over one eye as she

inclined her head, a rumpled,

translucent blouse, that covered

youthful breasts primly tucked into her

black skirt that stopped just above

her knees kept my wandering eyes

assessing her enthusiastically.

But, it was the curve of her wrist

on the baggage rack above her head

and the turn her hips as she tried

to balance her slight weight

against the wall of the train.

As an artist, I found the entire

scene accidentally aesthetic and

wanted the enchantress for my model.

I turned toward the window

to stare out and to daydream.

The glare from the red flashing

lights at the train-crossing road

cast the passengers’ reflections

as grey ghosts rounded off with

no form or shape and moving as

though dancing under a strobe.

Soft bellied, balding, and old

enough to be her grandfather,

I tried to keep from looking for her

image in the window, to not look

at her one more time. My

eyes had a mind of their own

and they caught her staring at me.

I looked at her; she turned her head.

A smile curved my dry, chapped lips

when I caught her sidelong glance,

but I looked away and recalled

playing this same game as a child.

There was a chill in the air that

settled in my lungs when I inhaled.

How pathetic I was. How stupid.

An old man playing a lover’s game.

The steady, low rumble of the sea,

like holding a conch to your ear,

that once was background noise,

soothed and calmed my racing

heart with its rhythmic clackety-

click and rocking motion. Will

took over and before I knew what,

I found myself searching the corner.

Her face tilted upward into the light,

she smiled, her shoulders lifted and

her back straightened before

she looked down again. It was only

a slight movement, but one

registered to memory, a movement

I knew I would paint one day.

I wished it to be today, tomorrow.

There was no way to stop my mind

from calculating the slant of

her shoulders, the bright, almost

angelic color of her cheeks. Her

eyes scanned the length of our car

and then came to rest on me. Her

mouth, a sensual mouth, twisted just

a little; it was almost a smile.

My presence of mind was no

different than when I was twenty

or so; it was the equipment below

that no longer functioned the same.

I closed my eyes, just a moment.

When my heavy lids rose, tired

eyes searched. She was gone. Lost to

the night. A dream I slept through.

The low noise in my throat disturbed

my thoughts, a soft groan, perhaps

a word. My world became small

and cold, and memories of a life

gone, of a love buried, repeated, with

the clackety-click... remember Mary

remember Mary remember Mary.

I wiped away the lone tear—Mary.

(young girl on a train, by Kay Crain and Adolph von Menzel's Man Yawning in a Train Compartment)

Mimi and Mona Poetry: Love on The Left Or How I Prevented A Barroom Brawl

©Love on The Left

Or

How I Prevented A Barroom Brawl

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Saturday morning breakfast off

Mill Avenue’s famous restaurant’s mezzanine

in the smoky, boisterous, and profanely

jam-packed Tapestry Room

and I nonchalantly quipped to the air

I wanted to tour old Route 66 to paint

and suggested we could both write.

George pounced on the idea

like a wolf on rabbit prey.

A momentary, penetrating stare

at my long and wild, frizzy, natural-curly hair

and he added I looked like some Fiji Islander.

An exotic observation for once

since he usually called me

you crazy Bohemian.

With an atypical burst of energy,

his chair scratched the parquet floor,

and then turned over,

knocking over a trolley of collected

and deposited dirty dishes with a loud crash.

Someone groaned Oh Hell

and the place fell into a frightful silence

as though they expected a barroom brawl.

The silence became so absolute,

the click of an electronic cigarette

being turned on sounded loud.

Only levity could change this atmosphere,

so, buttons clicked and pinged

on the table top and the floor

as I ripped open my full-length dress

and tore it from myself so

I stood naked...

except for my cowboy boots...

and began signing, at the top of my lungs,

I ain’t got no body.

Apathetic, crotchety, and cynical old men,

whose legs were too brittle and stiff to walk out on me,

stood and listened with the others—

not because I had a great voice.

I had an Olive Oyl body that,

after I finished my song and dance,

had them all bursting with laughter and applause

because, honestly, I ain’t got no body.

Mimi and Mona Poetry: Arizona

©Arizona

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Arizona;

he would never kick

it completely off his boots,

the dust of Arizona, heavy

and unrelenting, it would

cling to the angled heels.

So, why was he here

at the place of the one

woman he’d left

months ago? She

never opened the door

or happily greeted him when

he finally stepped inside.

He teased her with a few,

short sentences, kissed

the air, not her, and took

her there on her couch.

The last wasn’t planned.

Her whining had driven

him mad until he gave in,

gave her what she thought

she wanted from him without

permitting those claws

of hers to dig deep into

his skin so she could

continue to hold him

in a life he didn't want.

He couldn’t finish.

He didn't really

want to fuck her and

she did nothing but

lay on her back and

let him push his naked

flesh against hers

with no moans or

loving cries to encourage

him to complete the act—

that’s all it was with her.

He sat up to regain

his breath and, thick-

tongued, cotton mouthed,

and choking, was

immediately sorry

since the smell from

her nether region

brought to his mind

that day he spent

near the Pacific and

the odor from a seafood deli–

dried tuna and sour cheese.

It left his cock drenched

in the nauseating

stench of dill pickles.

Complaints and tears,

arguments and words

meant to belittle him;

the reason to leave

came back to him.

He knew where he

was his happiest.

Arizona.

Arizona.

She hated that place,

and his unconscious

whispers with her name,

and the smell of tequila

worms on his breath,

and that twitch with her

behind his crooked smile.

He may as well have

been in the desert with

his tanned bitch for

all the good her tears

had done, drying up

before they reached him.

He’d be sorry, she

had warned. He’d pay

for leaving her again.

She knew he was

fleeing her again to escape;

heading back to Mexico

he said; she knew that

State of Arizona

tugged on his big toes.

She knew she’d never

get her hooks into him.

When she wailed, he

said, “Shut up,” for one

last fuck. She did,

and prayed he’d come

back to her, or, at

least, think of her yet

she knew he’d never as

long as he had her and

Arizona.

She hated Arizona

and the woman who

ran naked through the

desert with him while

the sun burned his

northern white ass.

The leather divan was

cold, but his words

as he left were

colder. He said

“I don’t want you,”

and walked out, his

big toe twitching,

his dusty boots back

on his wandering feet,

and Arizona waiting

with its scorpion

sting left in her heart.

Arizona never

made him stay if he

wanted to go. He knew

that. And the woman

waiting for him there

would have changed

the sheets on her bed

and would turn her

book over with the

page left open because

she would stop reading

when he knocked on

her adobe home’s door.

He who never stayed

longer than a few months

but never truly left her...

He’d smile when she

welcomed him back with

a knowing grin, a few

kind words, and a naked

embrace he’d never forget

and never want to leave.

Arizona was the lucky one.

(She Is His - mixed media on canvas board)

Mimi Wolske - Mona Arizona Poetry: RAZZMATAZZ

JAZZING THINGS UP WITH POETRY...
(shared here for those who can't access WordPress)

©Razzmatazz

Implicated, we’re

in a situation

never fully

revealed.

We wanted to be

the sky — a

formal rendering

of word fragments

glimpsed as

a passing cloud,

overheard but

never really

paying

attention

on the train,

on the radio,

in the street,

in newspapers.

A clock-maker’s

revelation.

Surreal sensibility...

both familiar

and strange;

thoughts and

feelings gestate

in those spaces

dark and luminous,

equivocal and eloquent,

implicating us

in a situation

never fully

revealed.

 Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

(painting: Razzmatazz by Roy Lichtenstein)

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Tell Her Adieu

©Tell Her Adieu

Her failings shattered, became exposed;

she couldn’t prevent what you disclosed.

You ignored her as you ignored your own

beating heart, spurred on by testosterone.

You had her trust not to starve her

of your self, not to openly ignore her

as one of the walking dead. Did you tell

everyone the two of you split? Well?

Is that your reason to lock her in your hell,

in some cyberfile away from prying eyes

to be opened only when you can circumcise

her from her love and enjoy her privately?

She is a lovely, kind, thoughtful, unmanned,

and intelligent woman, and I cannot stand

the way she is being hurt by you;

time for you to tell her adieu.

She was drunk and crying; she could not

be anything but honest; that’s not tommyrot.

The look in her eyes was like the look

of someone when they first awaken...shook

because the surroundings are unfamiliar;

where everything seems to be a blur.

You fell in love with her honest moments.

Now you love unmade beds with a reverence

as you immigrate from one liminal space

to the next, from one Jezebel to the next scapegrace.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved