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The Perfect Circle
What human being (like Michelangelo)
could tame this beast:
an ancient saying from mouth to paper
with charcoal and lead serving up
dinosaur French fries and lunar soup
leaving behind a legacy and no language barriers
except steel bars and wooden ladders during
restoration
where the crowds of tourists and the workers
combine
into a mass of spectators witnessing or repairing
salvation --
a crowd so large even a soul's spaceship
wouldn't be noticed
if such a thing existed.
Ghosts Within
We are driving, Big Dipper
to the right of this country
highway
lit only by the moon flung high overhead --
partying with the stars.
We ride in silence, the big
maroon car hurling forward
past dark houses; we meet no other
cars.
No sounds - not even wind delve
into the soft, leather interior
aglow with specks of green neon, that are
read - not spoken aloud.
We are three strangers, like customers
shopping in an electronics store
searching for the right DVD or CD
to strike a spark,
or a flame from a falling star.
The car weaves and climbs up hills;
narrowly making turns.
The passenger in the back lifts
a fist to his face, his body jerking
back and forth as he coughs without
sound; it is too far away to
find a radio signal out here.
The Driver eases off the gas just
a little, eyes droopy, in need of
rest - the front passenger sleeps.
A glow of blue and white hurls
towards us bathing our vehicle
in purple as the speeding sports
car blazes past us never pointing out
with a flash from high beams to low
that we -- in our maroon car --
are driving without headlights.
Making us ghosts driving towards home.
Undelivered Mail
Cold rain pounding down making mud pies
from dirt and decaying leaves.
1:56 p.m. Eastern Standard Time; not
Daylight Time just the regular stuff.
The mail has finally arrived - the
weight of it causing the mailbox
to lean on one side - it's old,
it really needs to be replaced.
Peeking out the windows wanting
to believe my neighbor's don't
know anyone's home, not working; only
breathlessly waiting for the mail
pulling back curtains wondering what
it will take to get out the front door and
back
in without being seen.
If we had a mail slot in our door
the mail could be thrown right in
tumbling to the floor.
Fearing discovery, the whole
house is dark - no televisions,
no radio's; luckily the microwave
is quiet so finger sucking
hot popcorn dripping with butter
can be popped and sucked down
while flipping through an old copy of the
Eddie Bauer catalog; of course
if there's any luck at all along with
the bills, junk mail and other garbage
they'll be a new one in today's mail.
Damn the neighbors - damn them
for keeping me a prisoner in my
own house.
Raising my eyes to the windows to peek out,
my body cringes as the clock ticks --
ticking, ticking away minutes
then hours until the alarm
tells me it's time to go
crawling around on the front porch
for the mail.
LB Sedlacek is an award winning poet who has had poetry
appear in Grit, Would That It Were, The Horsethief's Journal,
The Artemis Journal, Facets Literary Magazine, Lutheran
Digest, Between Kisses, muse apprentice guild, sidereality,
and Iodine with work upcoming in Coppertales, Poetry Motel,
Harford Poetry and Literary Society Journal, Hadrosaur Tales,
HazMat Review, Snake Nation Review, and The Foliate Oak.
LB's poetry chapbook Alexandra's Wreck was published by Kitty
Litter Press (www.kittylitterpress.com) in 2002 and LB was also
nominated for the Pushcart Prize in poetry. LB's short fiction
has appeared in Duct Tape Press, The Outer Rim, Ascent
Magazine, Bovine Free Wyoming, Nuvein Magazine, and The
Unlikely Unknown.
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