Mimi and Mona's Poetry: Our Morning-After Existential Chemicals

©Our Morning-After Existential Chemicals

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

Your eyes reflected how I radiated life;

you said that once.

I was lost in your arms and

became a different woman

with each whispered word

of possession and lust

that rushed over the cliffs

of mobile, kissing lips like

a torrent waterfall, and I couldn’t breathe.

My fingers traced patterns on your skin

and I thought

if ever there could be a

moment in time I could freeze,

this would be it... dear G-d,

this would be it. Then,

you Chapter Sevened my love—

you took all of it. Everything!

So, what were you thinking, man?

What were you saying to me?

I needed practice holding my body

against someone new?

Hey, Prince Charming;

I didn’t shampoo my hair

for other men to sniff.

Did you believe me out of my mind?

You could have been the

amalgamation of my dreams,

but you were forever a man

of few words that were just out of reach.

You’ll never be able to cop a feel...

your brain will be as limp as your cock,

sucker.

The tarmac

fell away from the plane,

teardrops fell away from the sky,

and the fall with two broken wings...

no, it wasn't you, it was me...

Your electric cereal bit you back, huh?

Smile, bone daddy, because it will be

the only bite you will get in

this least favorite part of my life...
my life without your feigned love.

Your words transformed,

became weapons with the capacity to

rip me in half, but

before the sun set on your last sentence—

remind me to call you—

I understood they and

your kisses held a million deceits

during our amassed years; and

fighting the ghosts of

our history meant only

you must stay, I must fly.

I won’t be the last woman

you will sweep off her feet

with heart-racing speed.

You will always have this reminder...

I will be flying high, you will not;

and the lifetime of a love you lost

will fly high and free with me.

Last night ended forever

in a bitter-sweet memory.

Today’s rain washes away

our morning-after existential chemicals

like a bright sunrise

in a wide-angle lens.

I’m free. I’m smiling

and flying high, and I’m free.

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: ©Trapped in a Pearls-vs-Men Marathon

©Trapped in a Pearls-vs-Men Marathon

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

the moment we first set

sight on each other,

I knew I was in for

an adventure.

your hat slanted over

to one side in a

rakish way opposite

your straight-laced self.

your outstretched arms embraced

me a bit longer

than those in the lobby

wanted to observe.

the angel in your eyes

became devilish

and your crooked smile was

a wicked grin.

the softness of your lips

pressed hard against mine

and your tongue maneuvered

into my mouth.

you could have been scabrous

but I’d have been blind.

are you capable of

more than pretense?

I arrived trapped on the

wrong side of cool

like a prop in the lobby

of your folly

Now, in the hour of our lust,

there is more of me

in parts of you than a

gutsy psychosexual landscape

And, I know that I am

cast before the swine of

gluttony— that we are

trapped in a pearls-vs-man marathon

(Malcolm Liepke, The Embrace, oil, 52 x 40 in.)

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: Bringing Sanity To Clarity

No one dishes happiness up on a silver platter. 
It's an illusive notion to believe happiness is something that can be acquired from an external source
—it's a fantasy.
Happiness in an inside job.

©Bringing Sanity To Clarity

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

You stripped me down

dropped me in the cold

and then watched so

you could say shut up—

you just wanted

to get rid of me

I’m unable

to make decisions

with a full moon

shaking hands across

my dizzy eyes

and my love-stripped heart

You never dreamed

I’d refuse to wear

your coward shoes—

I know you’re lying

sandwiched between

someone else’s sheets

I wish I knew

some other language...

never wanted

to discover you

under another’s

sunset embracing

You are the one

living in bondage

and her baked goods;

does she know you are

erasing her love

with every fuck

Tomorrow’s tide

and yesterday’s smoke

screens don’t move me;

your keypad grin and

pixilated lips

can’t distract me

You walked away

pushed me from your life

without a word

while I gathered heat

from burning bridges

left in your wake—

I don’t need proof

no explanation

just vitamins;

I will survive...

bringing sanity

to clarity

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: ©Scourged

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Have I dissolved in a fever

or is this some dream that pours

from my mind like bitter grapes

and devours my countenance?

In a world gone dizzy and grey

from an annihilation of pathos,

with false bravado, I stand

naked before many judges.

Unlike the nude on the painter’s

canvas, my nakedness is my vulnerability

and my defense against the accusations

whipped across my broken flesh.

The accusers don’t close their eyes;

with eager desire, they observe every

inch of bleeding bits of meat rip from

my body and soar like the wind’s slave.

If only I could unzip

this coat of torment and pain,

this ignominy before the rain

erodes all memory of who I was.

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: A Congress of Distress

With a little humor, poetry becomes not only fun to read but can encourage the reader to desire to read more.

Enjoy

©A Congress of Distress

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

if there's no Holy Haluski in heaven,

then your heavenly touch

may well ignite my mashed potatoes

and my gastro innards will

never perform their growling symphony

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: LOST MEMORIES

I once read in a book that good memories are like jewels. We need to bring back the art of the love letter, on the most beautiful piece of stationary, with the finest calligraphy we can muster, and using an old-fashion fountain pen and ink. It’s difficult to tie a ribbon with love around a computerized note.

©LOST MEMORIES

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Today some yellowed envelopes fell;

among them was your silent ghost

divulging words of younger days when

our love was grand, our wits were few.

Tears quivered on lips where they fell

and I remembered how Cupid proved

that love was blind —for many years

in our niggardly romance.

I thought I’d forgotten, but it all

rushed back again. Then I found

a vinyl and played what was “our song”

causing more tears at aught askew

and my loving memories of you.

ASB

ASB

by Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Living up to part of her Swahili name,

She turns them out with each new moon;

Wicked, evil Bunny(s).

She looks white as Snow on the outside

But she’s black as Asha on the inside,

A bush whacker behind that Vamp mask;

Crafty as hell making sure her face

Is clean and the stolen lettuce is on

the fur of those she taunts publicly.

Narcissistic and uncaring who she hurts,

She makes sure another is brought

Down for the evil things she says

And does. Happy someone suffers

For the harm she’s done, they

Do the time for all her crimes and

She’ll repeat her lies until

Everyone stops listening, believing.

(gif by Bran Muir)

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: #3

About my four-line poem:

I am presenting it to the reader using the element of the language of indirection.

Learn more after you read this:

#3

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

The Northerly is absent this year;

When will that cold winter air across the border blow?

Oh, Boreas, let your breath bring his embrace to this Fallen Leaf

And pray, with me, he will never let me go.

At the center of this short poem is the speaker’s desire to be reunited with the one she loves (most obvious in lines 3 and 4). However, the full meaning of this poem depends on lines 1 and 2 as well.

We know the speaker is the Fallen Leaf because she refers to herself as such (line 3). She associates her grief with the wind; but, the speaker leaves to implication (or, indirection) just how the lovers and the wind are related. I worked on this poem so they (the lovers) are related in several ways.

The need to manifest and experience love is an inherent need, just as nature’s need for changing seasons and, in this instance, wind. We can think of it as love, like the wind, is natural.

The lover is living in a kind of drought, or arid state (a drying, fallen leaf) that only the one she desires can slake by his presence, his embrace.

The wind cannot be controlled nor can it be foretold, and human affairs, like the lovers' predicaments, are subject to the same (sort of) chance.

There are also associations with specific words; for example, Northerly and border, which the reader is probably only half aware of but contribute to the meaning of the poem. Their connotations provide indirections that enrich the entire short poem... they offer the reader the location of the one she loves. Fallen Leaf is an indirection because it isn't just about the time of year, it is telling the reader the lover is in the Autumn of her life.

Thanks for bearing with me as I explain what I wish you, my readers, to take away.

(painting: Boreas and Fallen Leaves, oil on canvas,35 x 26 inches, by Evelyn De Morgan — 1855 - 1919)

Mimi and Mona: ©To Our Graves -- from the “Letters I Never Sent You” series

From the "Letters I Never Sent You" collection/series, there are some memories we must all consider taking to our graves. 

©To Our Graves

from the “Letters I Never Sent You” series

Mimi Wolske

All rights Reserved

How Well Do I Know You from those first provocative words in letters and phone calls when you courted and wooed me? I’m awash in nostalgia as I look into the castle where our memories are recorded.

Words growled like a wolf the first time we made love and you, playing the role of the alpha wolf, insisting that I say I belong to you (and me, smiling at my playful thought and saying, “You belong to me.”), and, then, you laughing and growling.

Words shared about past lovers (and me, once again laughing at my thoughts, deciding to post my limerick about you and her, naked, and the saran wrap) and her asking you, “You told her about that!? Why?”). The words you limited after that over the years. I still laugh.

Words you put to paper in poems and limericks for me, about me, and shared on your blog for the world the read. But also the words about me you protected from the public eye as well as those hateful words of revenge you told others and then told me what you shared with them hoping to keep us invisible from jealous mouths and prying eyes.

I know your eye color, the names of your blogs, the fake names you use on social internet sites, your birth date, how short I should trim your toenails, your college major, your moods, your favorite color, your humor, your love of a good nap, hobbies you like and that massage table you had once, your religion, what you like for breakfast and how you like your asparagus prepared as a snack, that you chase women, and I know your full name.

I know you by heart; you’re in my heart. You’re a loving memory on every part of me. How well I know the taste of you along my lips, and the corners of my mouth; the feel of you warm and moist at my crown, my nape, my hands, my back, my navel, my toes.

The commanding gentleness of your hands is registered on my shoulders, my cheeks, my back, my waist and hips, the back of my thighs, and my hands as your fingers teased and tensed every iota of skin day and night, as those hands directed me as we danced the tango—in our fashion.

Forever in reverie is the weight of you against my breasts; my belly; between my thighs and against the matted, black mass of curls at their apex; on my back; and against my buttocks.

You can never be alien to me again; our DNA is blended together in every city, every state, every country we have shared time as two, as one, as partners for minutes, hours, days and nights, and weeks. It has found homes on every book, every CD, every remote, painting, piece of each other’s clothing, every room key, every house key, the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge, every boat paddle and cabin at Sandy Point, restaurants, bus seat, car seats and doors, the zoo, the Roswell Alien Museum, every bottle of massage oil, the trailer down near the border, casinos, beds, chairs, counters, showers, divan/sofas our bodies have touched.

We have shared laughs, political thoughts, tears and sadness, loss, happiness, jokes, religions, advice, vulnerable moments, anger, intimacies, special names/abbreviations for each other, gifts, photos together and separate in all the places we visited, and so much more.

How Well Do I Know You? As well as any loved one, more than some, never less than any. I know you like me and also more than like me.

 

Some memories we take to our graves.

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Weaving My Future From My Past

I think a poem ends when it answers itself; however, it may have resolved nothing.

©Weaving My Future From My Past

Mimi Wolske

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.

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Pink-Polka-Dot Men Laugh

The Gods have fashioned us for love. 

That is our great glory, and it is our great tragedy.

IF YOU ARE FAMILIAR

WITH MONA ARIZONA,

YOU WILL BE FAMILIAR

WITH THE TYPE OF

POETRY SHE SOMETIMES

PUTS TO PAPER.

READER BEWARE,

THIS IS ONE OF THOSE POEMS!

©Pink-Polka-Dot Men Laugh

and pay Zara — they have

poison oak but they want what

the heavy-breasted whore

on The Upper Haight sells.

It’s more than fortunes if you

know the right name when

you call to purchase her

services. Dark stairs lead

men and women to her rooms.

They’re there for her to fuck them

in the back room, away from

the prying eyes and busy nose

of her brother who is visiting.

In the front, she takes money

from widows, women with

no lovers, and sensitive men;

she makes up stories and

tells paying customers lies

based on what she has read

in the news, on the web, on

social media sites they have joined,

and from all she has learned

during her life on the streets.

They believe her. She is quite

convincing with her Tarot cards

and crystal ball on its brass stand.

In the back room, the polka-

dot men drop an easy three

one hundred dollar bills for Zara to

suck their brains out through

their cocks and more C-spots from

each to let them poke her in the

back door, to bring a friend, and

to place her chocolate thighs

on the sides of their heads

and sit on their faces so they

can jam their tongues into

her wide cave and prove

they are man enough to

find the nonexistent nectar

and suck it down. One pushes

her aside and yells “Mama!

Phew! That sure is some damn fine

vulva-aid you got down there!”

She laughs. The pink polka-dot

men laugh and the others pay

to prove they can do it, too.

They put three more Benjamins

on her table so they can

sandwich her between two

of them while she lets the

third drill her mouth.

In the morning, before she

changes the sheets so she

can sleep, Zara counts

her earnings. It’s been a

long night; she’s cold and

she’s hungry, but she smiles.

She would have taken

out her teeth for the third

man, but he didn’t have

an extra fifty for the thrill.

by Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

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)