Singularity of Duality

Red rock canyons that
circle the air like smoke rings
and hang in bowls of spilled milk
over clouds of disgust and
even some purple green envy
that leaks from cracked and stained ceilings
splashing on empty doorways
and backdrops of calm.

spread out wide
homeless thoughts that carry no meaning
only the final aspect of a rambling mind
that once had focus and form
taking shape before the obese god of circumstance
finding reason in sweet white ovals
and bitter black squares that melt
across the silver of regret
and run in rivulets of ease
clouding blind eyes and opening
dreams like gifts in piles of colored paper
and pretty blue ribbons
scattered across an empty floor.

And rain glides like oil
down windows that open onto nothing
and the moon reflects itself in
the rotting of never
and sits upon the shoulder
of a tower of tomorrows
laughing in corporeal contadiction
at crumpled possiblitlies
and untasted destinies.

In a white room with no doors
she methodically closes each window,
watching as it
becomes smooth and opaque
melting into walls of time
and disappearing into the past
slowly locking one after the other,
and soon there will be no more
and she will reign
within the silence of herself
where red rock canyons
circle the air like smoke rings
and the moon sits upon the shoulder
of a tower of tomorrows
laughing
always laughing
at the singualrity of duality
that writhes and contorts
like some rabid court jester
within the minds
of march hares
and men.

---

Misplaced Masterpiece

The canvas,
leaning nonchalantly against the easel,
whispered,
"I'm waiting."

"Fuck you," I said.
"I know you...
you will drink all the paint that I slather on you,
twist my visions into gnarled hominy
and bend my colors into a muted mass of potato salad.."

"Aww, dont be so mean...I could cooperate,
Just stroke me a bit,
brush away my stark reality,
I have unknown worlds
in me, waiting to be uncovered."

"Hey, its Christmas...I have things to do..
just leave me alone..."

"Yeah , yeah...,"..and it closed its white eyes
and slept for a while...

"Pssst....Christmas is over...you promised..."

"Shit, you again?? Man, I don't have time for this crap.
You will suck me into you, and I won't get out until
you have chewed me into steak tartare,
served me up on cracked china,
then shoved what's left of me
down the garbage disposal.."

"Ahh, but think of the possiblities...we could be a pair...
we could write symphonies of sunsets,
or sing hymns of salmon and lavendar
to dawns that sleep just under my surface..
come on...just pick up the brush...
plop a little paint on that pallette....
I will do the rest...."

"Sigh..well, okay...but you better friggin' deliver,
'cause I ain't got the time to be coaxing
the soul of you out of cold storage."

and I plop...and smear...and stroke my way
into a creative crack dream,
and I smear, and stroke, and plop some more,
and the fucking canvas just sits there,
holding tight to its inner secrets,
waggling its tongue and dribbling disdain
in drips and drops of oily could be's,
...........and I swear
I can hear
that lying bastard
laugh.

---

Environmental Maladaptation

One of the truckdrivers found it
On a highway outside El Paso
and it made the journey in a card board box
from there to here.
Horned toad, tiny desert dinosaur,
transplanted by fate
to the humid lushness
of South Louisiana.
I attempt to recreate its desert environment
within glass walls,
but I know that it does not belong,
does not fit,

its adaptations are all wrong
and, ultimately, it will not survive.

It is Christmas,
and your grandmother's annual full page society section
Christmas party.
You are angry because I spent the day
making a desert for a lizard
instead of going to the hairdresser.
I want to wear the little irridescent blue dress,
but my taste is all in my mouth,
and you select a black velvet one
with long sleeves to hide ancient history,
"and for god's sake do something with your hair."
I wad it up in a clumsy attempt at a French twist,
teasing out a few stray curls around my face
which you say make me look like a waitress at Pitt Grill,
so I comb them back and spray them down
sleek against my head, manniquin-like.
You unlock the safe and bring out the ornaments,
perfect diamonds,
just large enough to be expensive,
not so large as to be gaudy.
You fasten one strand around my neck,
another captures my wrist,
as I slip the studs into protesting earlobes.
Then you hold me at arms length,
examining me for flaws,
and your curt nod tells me
that I will do.

The ride is filled with instructions on proper topics
of conversation.
No politics..(my views are liberal)
No religion...(I am not catholic)
No children...(they are boring)
and under no circumstances am I to enter into
any discussion that involves business..(I am a woman)
I am to smile, circulate, and make small talk.

Once there, I wander amid strangers, smiling,
and vomiting out putrid strings of inane chatter
at all the wrong moments,
until your eyes throw daggers at me
from across the room,
and I retreat thankfully to the warmth of the kitchen
and the welcoming arms
of the two old black ladies
who feed the multiudes of high society
who frequent the elegance of your grandmother's graces.
They feed me select morsels of seafood
and sanity, and we talk about kids, and dogs,
and Mandy's gall bladder operation,
and we laugh, deep, from the centers of us,
until they shoo me out to go "mingle with those
rich white folk, where you belong",
although all three of us know the fallacy
of that statement.

At home, I sit on the floor,
lay my head on the table that holds the terrarium,
and stare at the misplaced horned toad.
You tell me it is time to go to bed,
but I cannot move.
I am frozen, encased in ice,
transfixed by the clarity
of my reflection
in those doomed
reptilian eyes.

---

     Hi. My name is W. Laura Alleman. No one, remembers what the W. is for and only my chidren, who are various and sundry, ranging in age from 21 to 4, of whom, thank god, only four entered this world through my vaginal canal and of whom, thank god, only four still share this rambling monstrosity we call a house, call me Laura. Almost everyone else knows me as "Phant", "Phantie", "Phantom", Phantomheart", or "Oh my god, there she is again." I am old as dirt (47), although I think by the time dirt is that old it has mostly been recycled into worm poo, so I guess I am holding my own faily well, because I haven't completely turned to shit, yet...at least, I don't think so. My husband, however, might argue that point...Oh, yes, I do have some of those husband thingys, one current, several previous, and I also have a big gray tomcat who likes to rub on my legs after he goes out whoring around the neighborhood.
     I began my long and illustrious university career in Louisiana in 1971 where I majored in Psychedelia, continued my education in California, where I studied Street Bands and Washtub Base Techniques, returning to Lousiana to collect the various assortment of three letter tags that I can hang at the end of my name when the mood strikes me, and the stack of framed documents that collects dust on the top of my hutch. After trying on several different careers, from greasy spoon waitress to oilfield truck driver, I settled into the teaching profession where I spent fifteen years filling my students' heads with literary bullshit and social activism, and from which profession I am currently taking an unspecified leave of absence to decide what I want to be when I grow up. And that brings us here, to The Hold, where I am going to attempt to drive both our devoted readers and our eminent editor completely insane with my flagrant and often incoherent ebullitions and my penchant for erratic and remonstrative ramblings.