Retrospect

Undoable

Suzanne with a Z

Suzanne with a Z in seat 28, row L. Her Z nudges her. The stage skips out of the theater door as a dozen eyes glare at her. Suzanne's dog-eared script grabs her hand. Her Z sighs. An impossible audience taps Suzanne's shoulder, reminding her of faded memories and glory. Carl can't kiss. Never could. Suzanne tangled in a duvet determined to orgasm. Never happened. Her Z wilted. Pretend Carl, pretend.

A faltering ego with long legs and ginger curls waltzes past the proscenium arch and throws herself into the orchestra pit. Suzanne catches her with one hand while her Z slaps Carl. Like this Carl, like this. Suzanne's lips leap onto Carl's mouth and chew it off. Suzanne embraced by rubysweet tendrils. Suzanne splattered with passion. Suzanne in splendor. Her Z strokes Carl's hair. "Places!" says the ghost lamp.

Suzanne with a Z in seat 28, row L. Carl breaks a leg. The ginger ego takes a bow. Bouquets ride through applauding thespian air. Z slips out of the theater door as the curtain falls. Suzanne burns with acclaim. Carl still can't kiss. Suzanne marries him anyway. ©kcasady2014

Sugar

Kings

If you could have 50 pounds of anything other than money, what would you want?

Elizabeth couldn't afford his whole body so she put in a bid for 50 pounds of him. The instructions for entering the auction said any or all parts not to exceed 50 pounds. Her budget allowed for exactly the starting bid amount. She entered her offer anonymously as instructed. The notification of her win came precisely as the deadline passed. 

His picture showed a rather tall and lean body type with nice legs and arms, a smooth muscular torso and quite a head of lush hair. The information provided said the brain inside his skull contained a considerable amount of information. The notification of her win informed her that, because of her early bid, she had first choice.

The whole body weighed 200 pounds. Just for fun and because he was made in Britain, Elizabeth decided to convert his weight into stones; one pound equals seven hundredths of a stone or one stone equals 14 pounds. She came up with the answer that 200 pounds equaled 14 stone and 50 pounds of him equaled 3.5 stone. Either way she'd won approximately one quarter of him. 

She wanted a new partner for some time as her last one wore out from constant use; earlier models did not have the durability and stability of the newer ones. They tended toward volatility. Her last partner, who had the name of Richard III, came apart one night during lovemaking as he rode her crying out, “A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!”  

That incident occurred over eight months ago. His guarantee had just run out and she had no recourse. Still, she had gotten great value and much pleasure from Richard III and thus was not bitter at having to replace him. “‘Tis better to have loved once and lost than never to have loved at all,” she thought fancying Lord Tennyson’s famous words.

Based on her research, which ever parts she picked would ultimately grow whatever was not there. The cutting edge rejuvenation process took 10-14 days to complete. Head, shoulders and arms might be nice. That way she could talk to him as he grew; getting to know him; listening to his lovely British lilt. But, instead, “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,” ran through her head and she chose his substantial bottom half. 

She named him Henry VII. Out with the Plantagenets and in with the Tudors she thought. It took much less than the full two weeks for Henry VII to grow his lovely arms, chest and head. In fact, to her utter delight, he became fully functional in only hours. And, just like Richard III, Henry VII’s hair grew in as light, fine ginger. This result gave her immense pleasure for she too was a ginger. “There never was a saint with red hair,” she thought remembering an old Russian proverb she’d heard many times from her grandmother.

One night, as she and Henry VII lay quietly in bed, she reading and he signing and sealing documents in his most Tudor of ways, she heard a knock at her door. “I’ll get it,” she said to Henry VII. “You look terribly busy.” He gave her a regal nod in return for her favor. 

She opened the door and Richard III charged past her in full chain mail regalia. “Henry Tudor resides here and I shan’t have it,” he cried.

“Wait. What?” Elizabeth called to his back. “I recycled you.”

“Out! Out! Out with you Henry Tudor,” he cried at the closed bedroom door. “Roust yourself. We shall meet again and I shall topple you. This room shall become our Bosworth Field!” He raised his broad sword above his head.

Henry emerged from the bedroom without a speck of clothing upon his body. Richard swung his sword and off came Henry’s head. But, even before it rolled into the corner of the room, Henry grew another one. Richard tried again, with the same result. He put down his sword. Both men looked at Elizabeth.

“We all need a cup of tea,” she said. “Sit down on the couch. I’m sure we can work this situation out to everyone’s satisfaction.” 

Especially mine, she thought as she headed into the kitchen chuckling with great glee as she pranced past a framed, cross-stitched sampler she’d made that said,  “It is observed that the red-haired of both sexes are more libidinous and mischievous than the rest, whom yet they much exceed in strength and activity.  Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels.” ©kcasady2014  

Keyboard

She walked into the room. All seemed as it should, nothing changed, everything in its place. She dusted the books, moved on to the keyboard, accidently pushing a key. G she thought. He always started his pieces on a G. Just his thing she said out loud to nobody in particular. She put down her dust rag and, sitting at the keyboard, plunked out the first few notes of his last song, the unfinished one. The one they played at his funeral. The song whose words she could not hear when he wrote them. ©kcasady2014

 

Hound

My dear madam:

I often look up from my work and out the window

And through the early morning haze of golden fairy dust

See you glide by my hideaway from whence I view the quiet green road below

My sylvan refuge shields me from all wandering eyes but yours

The big hound catches my attention

as she prowls along the lane 

A tall blond with long legs

Somewhat resemblant of her companion 

Elegant and free

Bold in her nuzzling 

Shy with her glances

I see you briefly look toward my window

But your focus is the hound

A magical rapport as you move in unison

Matched in repartee 

Spellbound as if intoxicated by an elfin elixir

And you walk on

But I note a tiny glimpse over your shoulder at me

I nod but you've no notion of my small acknowledgement 

Lost perhaps in the light reflection of greenery against the pane

©kcasady2014

Lantern

He held the lantern above his head. Its glow spread golden, cutting through the darkness; fraying its edge; lighting up his writhing Lovely. He called them all his Lovelies. One by one, he fell in love; one by one, they turned away. One by one, he charmed them; one by one, they never stayed. But this last Lovely warmed to his courtliness; joined him at his side. She possessed him and broke the rules. No longer love struck, he bound her, gagged her and drove a blade through her heart, fancying himself her killer. ©kcasady2014

Parcel

You watch as he puts the parcel down. Why there you think? It belongs on the table, not on the chair. You wonder why he does things that way. It's not right you think, putting packages on chairs. Just a bit off you think, just a bit incorrect. You want to make a remark, say something like chairs are for sitting not storage but he just looks right through you with his juicy greenish-blue, heterochromous eyes and he has you even before you open your mouth to utter a word. My darling is all he says and you melt a teeny bit as you fall under the spell of his Knightsbridge Cockney momentarily overlooking the package sitting quite improperly on the chair; forgetting that you wanted to chide him about his indiscretion. By the time you catch your breath and gather yourself he scoops you into his long arms and you find your head resting against his sonorous chest. Lub dub, lub dub you hear and the smell Attimo Pour Homme draws you away from your thoughts of the parcel listing on the edge of the chair. You want to pull away and point out that the contents of any bag should be sorted and put away immediately but he strokes your hair and plants kisses between the strands. Your scalp tingles with each touch of his lips and your mind drifts a bit as you feel his pecs beneath his soft white shirt. You remember running your hands over his smooth almost hairless upper torso and hearing him say my darling in his Knightsbridge Cockney as his aura melted into your skin holding you as a divine hostage. You catch yourself as you spot the parcel out of the corner of your eye and you start to say that it will fall from the chair and everything will spill out onto the floor but he tilts your head back and seals the words in your throat with a kiss. He parts your lips to make way for his gentle probing tongue. A vision of the bag strays through your mind's eye as your tongue unwittingly melds to his in glorious harmony. His manfulness unfolds and you feel it grow against your belly climbing towards your breasts. Your arms and hands grasp his lovely bum instead of reaching for the falling parcel pulling yourself into his essence. My darling he says as he waltzes you off to the bedroom and the bag tumbles spilling its contents all over the floor. ©kcasady2014

Tarot

And from his urn he dreamed…and he remembered the land burning and the foxes foraging for food among the dead…sifting through unburied corpses… nuzzling into torn dead pockets…sometimes finding a morsel or two… picking up wanton broken swords…transforming them into playthings…flinging them into the air…listening to the clank of rusted metal breaking against rock-strewn turf…dusting human carcasses with shimmering metallic rubble…and the foxes laughed peculiar laughs and haunted the necropolis fields with stony songs.

And from his urn he dreamed…and he saw his children dancing naked…enthralled with the golden coins pouring from his hands…winnowing through his fingers…bouncing from their chests...he heard their joyous shrieks as they played…tossing doubloons into the air…catching them by the fistful…watching as their hair turned pale blond and their bodies to frail white bones lying in repose…golden discs protruding from their eyes…while  the foxes crooned atonal lullabies to the dead babes and suckled each other in sorrow.

And from his urn he dreamed…and he recalled meeting her under the Sign of the Rose…they knew their story before it even began…he the lordly ninth Knight of Staffs and she the perpetual and august Queen of Justice…their coupling preordained…their love braided into a single compelling vitality…they blazed with passion…their inferno lit the sky and the earth…soaring through the heavens giving the people hope…pulling them from doldrums and sorrow…inspiring dreams and illusions…the people hurtled forth from tragedy and death…glowing with hope…illuminating the future…and the foxes called out to each other with garish voices and pranced through lush fields and glittering cities.

And from his urn he dreamed…and he felt the perpetual and imperious Queen of Justice devour him and regurgitate him into the ninth urn…he the dapper ninth Knight of Staffs thrust with great ceremony into her maw…the moistness and warmth of which he’d never experienced…he wrapped himself around her tongue…desperate never to leave… but like the eight other Knights he too melted… his essence spat and left to rot in a clay ossuary…the people once again returned to darkness…and the foxes howled  tawdry anticipation of despondency and dereliction.

 

And from his urn he dreamed…and he heard the battle cries of the world’s end…monstrous soldiers cloaked in darkness…roaming through desolation…plunging broad swords deep into earth’s barren loam…cutting its wretched mantle through to its empty core…splitting the planet into halves…riding them deep into the universe…crying victory into the utter silence of nothingness…and the ecstatic foxes rode with their masters and bayed joy. ©kcasady2014

 

Haiku

Balloon

Hunter

an almost invisible wraith...tremulous in its mannerisms...walks gently around a newly filled grave...tentative and brief in its movements...barely touching the ground with each step...its existence unknown to its dead compatriot...not deaded yet, it thinks…but soon to be deaded for sure...continuation impossible without constant companionship...

it floats around for a bit before nestling close to the headstone…its head rests upon it...an ephemeral, diaphanous cloak of nothing...waiting for a signal...an indicator of its next move...none come forth...not from the grave...not from the heavens...not the grass...the ground...the freshly turned mud...

around midnight…under a full moon…it awakens…startled by a nuzzling snout with a beastly cold nose…not deaded yet, it thinks again…the animal’s mouth utters a monstrous noise…ahh, it thinks…a fox…and the small creature begins to dig…driven perhaps by an ungodly odor coming from the grave…soon a trough appears under its paws…an air hole of sorts…a conduit between life and death…a pressure valve against unrelenting eternity… 

the fox prances aside and sits…cleans its paws, face and belly…its eyes all-seeing…as a peculiar wisp emerges from the vent in the earth…ephemeral and tremulous it sets a foot on the ground…gets its bearings…takes in the lay of the land…not deaded yet, it thinks…somewhat vexed at the jinx behind its predicament…but pleased at its release…now no longer bound up… 

a gentle breeze begins…ruffles the fox’s fluffy tail…blows the wisp against the headstone…into the arms of the waiting wraith…they blend to archaic perfection…ready to resume an ancient journey…but the fox swallows them…sounds out a dreadful cry…and saunters away from the open grave…

©kcasady2014

 

Pink

She wore pink the first time she noticed the shadow. It started following her the minute she stepped outside. She stopped. It stopped. She moved an arm. It moved an arm. Just like me she thought but she'd had enough fun with it and wanted to do something else. But it tailed her. Go away she told it but it attached itself to her feet. She shook them. Still it stuck. I don't want to play with you she said to it, you are no fun and you are not wearing pink. It returned nothing but silence. So she went back inside and put on her purple dress, her favorite, the one with sparkles down the sleeves. She looked at herself in the mirror. Perfect she thought and she went back outside. The shadow appeared again, attached to her feet, mirroring her every move but this time, it wore sparkly purple too. I love purple the shadow said to her. Oh, she said, me too! And they romped and jumped, climbed and swung for the rest of the day. As the sun went down, they parted ways. And she fell asleep that night thinking about her other purple dress, the one with sparkles on the front, the one she would wear tomorrow. ©kcasady2014

Always

Coexist

Still lush and full her black hair trembled in the breeze

A single curlicue lay matted against her forehead

Clinging by the grace of sweaty rivulets

Flowing through mystic facial creases

Dripping from a perfect nose

Nostrils wide with their last breath

Her slender unkissed neck 

Dreaming of lovers

Seeking sublime attachment

To her yet twitching body

Young in all its terror

Dressed in its crimsoned school clothes

The sweep of the blade sudden

No scream came from her pursed lips

Yet her eyes blinked eleven times

Defying her crime

Saluting her friends

He swung her bloody bauble head for all to see

Tossing it into a plastic bag 

Leaving it on the church steps

As a gift marking the end of Ramadan 

©kcasady2014

Neighborhood

Yielding

Loving

Farrago

Minuscule Storm

Humus

Selfie

Anima

Desiderium

His appearance did not scream ruckus nor did it hint at shenanigans 

Mild through he seemed

A vein of mischief threaded through him

Fusing to his heart

Wrapping itself around the oracle of his essence

Inescapable hilarity brewed beneath his pale balmy exterior

Binding him up

Bubbling out

Bursting forth 

Impossible to contain

Creating an unstoppable laughing man

Spreading his clamorous contagion

The people roared with delight

Venerating his drollery

Idolizing his hoopla

But he dreamed of an interruption

"Stop!" he screamed 

"Il me faut arête!"

A profound desiderium consumed him

He ached for silence 

Craved reticence

Longed for just one moment of brusqueness

He drifted past the point of no return

And decided to stay

©kcasady2014

Equality

You raffish men

Always with an eye for the pretties

Your tiny brain undressing us

Dreaming of just a brief peek

Thinking of our soft mouths wrapped around your non-thinking parts

And henceforth going deep within us

But gentlemen

Mind you

When a mild-mannered pretty smiles at your face 

She imagines it in carnal ecstasy 

When she looks down in apparent modesty 

Her eyes brush your loins

She thinks cut or uncut

A hand's breadth or width

She too would like to lay her gentle cat's paw upon your belly

Drawing it downward in anticipation of wanton lust

We want our share

And though you gentlemen jump to oblige us in the bedroom

You do not bare your total nakedness for all to see

On big screens

Small screens

In ads

On billboards

Oh the occasional bum makes an appearance

Sculpted chests proliferate 

But alas we must make do 

For no brave dangling parts emerge

Your shyness deprives us

Perhaps a modicum of smallness prevents the unveiling 

Indeed 

We bare it all 

Now come hither gentlemen

We believe in the equanimity of taking turns

©kcasady2014

Balderdash

My Dear Sir

You interrupt my thoughts

Intrude upon my mindfulness and

Fill my head with balderdash

You display extraordinary nerve
Prancing about

Festooning my brain with your handsomeness

Sprinkling it with your erudite hodgepodge 

Distracting me

Leaving me dazed beyond succor

You sir create a bawdy hullabaloo 

With your delicious carousing

And your luscious gallivanting 

You leave me no peace

You traipse willy-nilly through my essence

Popping up in your spiffy raffish duds

Really sir I pray you 

Leave me be

You torture me to the point of ribald cantankerousness and shameless debauchery

Your shenanigans rumble about my psyche upending all that is decent

Reducing me to a whirling tirade of insignificance

Then sir you amble off

Leaving one simple periwinkle 

A small blue reminder to temper my foolishness

You lollygag as you go

Grinning and winking

Twirling about

And while I skedaddle to return to a semblance of propriety

Attempting to beget order out of your leftover ruckus

You tiptoe back and knock it all over again

©kcasady2014

Bugbear

Aftermath

Sixty-Seven

So the young'uns at work thought 61?

A flattering fine guess you said

At 67...

You collect social security

You use Medicare

You must be rich they said

Rolling in the dough they thought

You laughed

Not bucks you said

But...

Wealth abounds in your life...

A dashing son and a lively daughter...

The king's choice they told us

A wife looking after you...

Married men live longer than singles

Good friends...

The B movie club...

A youthful outlook...

Seventeen thousand songs on your iPod...

And your important parts still work

Yep...

Happy birthday

Left-leaning

Old hippy

Zen humanist

Tim!

©kcasady2014

Debut

The sand rallies under his boy feet

Ready to absorb the impact

Of the grenade launcher placed on his narrow child shoulders 

The waves step back to give him room

Applauding his auspicious debut

While his mind conjures up faces of imaginary enemies

Wired into his brain by a brotherhood of desperate men

Passing along a renegade tradition 

Of bloody Barbarossa and swift Barbary corsairs 

The pirate captain shouts fire

And the blue ocean turns dark red

From the explosion that topples him

But his father retrieves his proud son

And places victory kisses upon his burned baby cheeks

©kcasady2014

Summer Fun

The tiles gleamed

Or maybe beckoned

Just a little

In their attempt to entice her

Giving her feet tiny shoves

Coaxing her along

As light from each tall window

Aided in their scheme

Tossing about brilliant rhythmic glimmers 

That bounced from black to white

Quickening her step

Toward a hero's chair

Attended by gilded picks and mirrors

Humming note upon note of open wide

With almost enough sweet harmony

To calm her pounding heart

But she knew her mouth faced martyrdom

Her teeth cringed

Accosting her gums

Her tongue withdrew 

Perplexing her lips

She turned 

Struggled against the goading stimuli

And flew into the summer sunlight 

©kcasady2014

Amity

as the war rages

we forget our worth

we battle 

we murder

we bomb

lay waste

end it once and for all

drive them into the sea

call upon our gods

for our righteous cause

they deserve to die

give us the strength to accomplish our glorious mission

finish it 

render our enemy unto dust

but

a singular voice cries out 

joined by one and then another

numbering only a few

a whisper at first

astonishing even in their quiet words

have we forgotten our common past

have we forgotten from whence we came

our history

our ancient compatibility

from long ago when we resided side by side

when our shared father commanded that we both become great nations

and we did

we grew together

granting refuge to each other

facing prevailing enemies

our descendants spreading their lives across the earth

as we practiced our common traditions

and we held holy the ritual circumcision of our boy children

now murdering each other

two peoples of this earth abiding by that potent sameness

is that not a compelling bond

the blessing of a covenant with God

but the astounding voices vanish

first one then another

fading into the haze of fury

until only the silence of gunfire resounds

©kcasady2014

Burnished

Virginal

Sentinel

Fairy Dust

My dear sir

It appears you have taken up residence in my neighborhood 

On the very street where my hound and I walk daily

You picked a quiet virginal lane

Secluded but for the occasional car and the few pedestrians avec ou sans les chiens

The denizens who discovered this hidden urban gem 

Who tiptoe through its celestial silence 

Lest any noise attract unwanted attention

And you sir dodge the world in

this perfect utopian refuge

Your splendid hideaway at the side of my silvan path

Each morning I pass the faux French farmhouse where you bide your time

Working on whatever clever project occupies you

And as I linger for a singular moment

While the hound sniffs out her compatriots then leaves her own message

I glance to the upper window and glimpse you at your endeavor

Certainly you see me for I sense recognition

Yet despite the possible outlet from your burdens

The opportunity to leave your concerns

You do nothing but remain deep in your mind

You fain familiarity as anathema to your being

I shan't wave

I shan't knock

Instead I speak to the nymphs and sprites who reside in the quiet lushness

Pleading for a tiny furor

An enchanted fairy dust storm

Of golden lust

And rising silver passion

But instead the hound finds a morsel

Pulls on the lead

And we walk on

©kcasady2014

Madness

Noted

Book of Life

Youth

Drought

A nefarious little bugger

Always in the way

Loud and beastly

Swings his arms about

Shattering precious little pieces

Stomping them into slivers with

Bone crushing shards of lead

Stuck to the bottoms of his shoes

Oh yes...

Within him exists a drought 

Deep and long

Where happiness and sadness collide into tiny dry particles 

Drifting in the weak sunlight of his mind

And while mischief emanates from his fingers and hands

Toes and feet

Upon his face he has the cutest smile.

©kcasady2014

Shriveled

Kidnapped

Three young Israelis kidnapped and perhaps lost

We Jews cry out

Even our enemies side with us

Bring our boys back

A song weeps those words

Earth rears her head

And falls to her knees

Stopping her perpetual spin

Taking a moment 

Remembering her multitudes 

Gone in the name of beliefs

Principles

Opinions

Vanished in the struggle for tribal power

For political domination

Who shall rule

Who shall divvy out the oil

Who shall make war to fill the coffers of the greedy

As young soldiers go to their patriotic deaths

I want to forget our preoccupation with terror

But somehow I cannot

©kcasady2014

 

Betrayal

The betrayal came as he gathered support

Let us sing he said

Voice the forbidden words

Drown out the maestro with sound

Put an end to our enslavement

But he sang alone

Because the people who needed their food and drink

Liked their soap and water

Valued their families and homes

Turned away from him

The headliner crooning truth

An illustrious virtuoso

Handsome in face

Strong bodied

Their soloist championing honesty and candor

Soon given a plane ticket to nowhere

But who never stopped singing

Whose liberating tune hung in the air

Even as he vanished

©kcasady2014

Forgiveness

Hell

The bibliophile season ended 

by decree of the master

No more books he said

Seven days

Every seven months

Enough now

Go back to your tablets and computers

Be absent from the smell of old paper and ink

The feel of leather bindings

The sound of turning pages

Be gone with you

Be glad I do not destroy your beloved tomes and compendiums

Your great works of science and literature

Benevolence and practicality prevent  me

Into the great vaults they go

Dream of them

Long for them

Let your hearts and minds yearn

Another seven months until your seven precious days

©kcasady2014

Despot

Daydreams

Punctuality

Behind on time

Exists intent

A wisp of wanting

Aspiring to punctuality

Hardwired out of reach

Beyond solution

Clocks make no sense

Exposed as thieves

They lie               

Use sleight of hand

Dupe the eyes into seeing Nonexistent fragments of time

Minutes vanishing into black holes

Timekeeping hypocrites steal promptness

Crying make haste

Lest tardiness prevail

©kcasady2014