Three and Counting

Please, just listen.
I mean listen:
Life and Look and Playboy and Harper’s Bazaar
Scattered
Black and white subscriptions
Ambiguous evidence in hand, hunting down women at work.
Sniffed out innocently by the Eisenhower oval office pet dog,
While a General brutishly  goose steps onto the front lawn of Korea.

In cloudy skies we can point to everything,
Curious index fingers ask why about that big dark bird.
We find similarity and we described it
In high school English to empty the milk cartons of meaning.
Gentlemen find themselves striped and
Reflected in receding ice cubes,
Swinging across Elm into suburban basement cock fights.
Floating, melting into her whiskey colored eyes
The missus distributes disambiguated steak and potato dinners
Defrosted
With a side of dry rye wit.

In science we would fold a mirror in thirds and
With respect to the hidden shadows find
Unnatural suspects. How dulled the senses
Thrashed by the gin mill of technology
Slowly pulled out of a Cage of empty spaces,
Drowned by the sounds of wood-paneled isolationism.
Yet we ask questions drawn from a box of angels at a miracle dinner:
An entire eight course galloping Gourmet special,
Or so-called, to feed on somebody else’s words.

The notorious vodka dressed with privately dismembered parts,
Smoking pipes, guns and skulls
Huge hips and house tits – giggles from beet red cheeky kids.
No, mother, advertisements, I swear.
No true story, with full magazines targeted by
Bullet points as submarine 100 proof alcohol holes.

And get this.
Seriously. As if that weren’t enough.
Mister Britain sent our commander in chief, still whole,
An artful paperback starring a spy and women with genitals for names.
How heavily infused with the bonds, stocks, red phones, a desk,
And one bombed blonde.
He related, I imagine he was stirred,
By her vermouth-scented breath waved like a magician’s scarf
Over his cold, bent body.
Promises of a universe held in a single Bucky ball…
And expressed on the moon.

In the years of our first breath our unfinished souls
We came out gasping for air.
Specific yet ambiguous enough
Though I wasn’t adopted as was the upper middle class
Interest en vogue back then.

Next door,
Someone defiantly sweats over a project;
Today’s Society: Our outdated social behavior.
Can you even determine a single source?
While we spread our arms wide across different domains:
Beer, soda, fashion, ties, cruises, cars.
Who wonders if a stenographer became involved with some director,
I think she probably typed for him at an agency,
He may or may not have knowledge of the messages
Samples slices of pies and examples between the unknown layer cakes.

Our lives backed over, in
1966 mauled in a dense article,
Stanley starts filming 2001.
A reenactment with photographs of Lord Snowden.
Phrases like:
“Alcohol consumption”
“Mind altering”
“Hidden innuendo”
Very redundant, for the affluent.
No apologies needed.
No offense taken.

Ilene

Female. East coast transplant living in the Bay Area of California. Living with Stage IV breast cancer. Married to the coolest guy in the universe who occasionally suffers from serious depression. Love my stepsons, although I never thought I'd have that thankless job - ever! And my best friend Simon is also my cat. How I have survived with stage IV: treatments including chemo and surgery; palliative oncology; tenacity; a dark sense of humor; support groups; and my newly reinvented career as a vintage and antiques maven. Some days I miss the old me who led a well respected and well paid life as a business strategist in high tech. So much for that. I blog to simply share my experiences and my poetic approach with others who have cancer of any kind or with their care givers and those who love them. If one person at the very least finds a little commonality or a friend out in the ether tor a smile, a common nod about this experience, or even a link to assistance, then I have accomplished a small but extraordinarily meaningful goal. Go team.

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