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Poetry
by Stan Rogal
Fake Bio (the first such)
Born March 5, 19__, not so bad as these things go
(though, not so good neither, as, the paired fish [ever] disposed apposite
up & down the scale heralded — entropically — a sound threat)
a life spent wheelchaired in a glassed-in front porch of a frame bungalow
on a side street in a small northern backwoods town in a Victorian-aged country
the whole ugly birth of the “either-or”
where Beauty stands outside the glass & waits w/gravity
whose father was an efficiency expert in a slaughterhouse
& who died due to a delinquent meat hook, intestate,
dazed, bleeding, both he & his horse, ha!
Whose mother coursed the cafes through revolving doors & nights
box shapes & moist smoke leaning on the pavement
stroke after stroke built for masochistic calm
the deep tones & shadows I will call a woman
somewhat older than some others (prettier too?)
a miniaturist whose eye was on the actual
electrocuted herself with her own bathwater.
It’s the tale of Creation. The whip cracks.
My God is immense, & lonely, but undaunted.
Yes, I think of you (often) with very little in mind
unfold the lawn chairs, crack a few beers, await the batty night
green, then orange flashing, then green
or there, a stand of scarlet sumac w/bobolink
behind the glow, maybe, some rain
an elusive, elliptical, & yet deeply moving personal drama
my face is my own, I thought,
the girl thinking: life is these pronouns
I want to be clear, I’m a detachment, as I am, obviously
but now I’m happy for a time & interested
characterized by wit & charm & thick eyelashes
in fragrance I can eat as I go
who are you anyway?
running rampant into those dynamic suits
backtrack & there can be no catastrophe this time, i.e. not this time
there were prisms & lanterns at the outer edge
tiny lights of many kinds began to be discernible
& (as well)
out of the thicket my daughter was walking, singing —
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[Distillate © HA&L + Stan Rogal {from the Greek bios} -- the course of a life.]
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