by LJ Frank
Where are you at
this moment,
are you just a Tamarind seed
of my imagination
to smooth the wrinkles of time
Saturdays mourn for you
as the metabolism of culture interrupted us
accountability in the Age of Rumor,
have you anything in your background
the machine asked
that might cause cheeks to blush,
like the rose tattoo on the derrière
the Internet spins its web
for the flower inked on skin
may equate to something more provocative.
Ambiguity effectuates desire
pleasing the audience from a stage
while performing in 4-inch heels
a marriage of business and pleasure
on a platform that no longer exists
attached to Detroit’s Cass Avenue
a few blocks from the uncensored library
life is living with aged bones
dancing in the streets
no money to do much else
except to caress
while the patriots’ play their role
of an endangered Phoenix rising
zealots of belief to disinform
and interrupted occurs once more
in the theater of the absurd
and a person wearing a cleric’s vestments
solemnly rose to the occasion
and began sharing pills from a purse
in shades of blue
the flaccid became erect
social media adores the lie
and the crowd sang His praise.
And midst the choir of amazing grace
it began to rain
our gazes crossed paths
we hurried out from under the storm
we felt like two living portraits
alive in the Detroit Institute of Arts
faces across from each other
yet our eyes touched in the gallery
followed by the thickness of sensual lips
our tongues kissed
your brown breasts under your blouse
pressed against
my covered hairy white chest
we were bound in the selfless moment
no desire wished to be unexplored
yet catching our breaths, we knew
we were on separate paths
academic degrees and honors in the making
to be affixed on walls of pride
and then one day while you spoke
to your prophet
and I to mine
in honor of some ancient, fabled ritual
another Saturday passed in want.
In time a digital cloud was formed
critiques now forever lingering
while the richest among the sheep
grinned in their socialist circles
and a voice asked, whose turn, is it?
Let them have morsels of hope
and compete among each other,
the dice was then tossed
across the pavement of existence
rolling into the sewer system
such is chance,
fairness is not part of the heart’s journey
one only must ask Anne,
a distant relative from the Netherlands
among the millions who have perished
on all continents over the ages
from the judgments of others
profiles dissected to fulfill
the need for a decision
cupidity never has enough
in the coffers of the soul.
And in our dreams
we are just a couple holding hands
and pretending it was all a surreal illusion
a black and white celluloid moment
from a forgotten film
while walking down Woodward Avenue
and knowing is the first step to forgetting
while gossipmongers have nothing better to do
within their make-believe heads
it’s easier to point at a splinter
as the log has become an addendum
and we wondered at the time
will there be a background check
on our dreams and thoughts tomorrow?
And will there be a pill to distort
to confuse the voyeurs self-perceived efficacy
and will humanity be reimagined
as an intelligent nanobot…
shaped to fit
the evolving architecture of the humane
and will truth no-longer be
you or me
still, our spirits long to be
in each other’s arms.