In a perfect world,

where knights march bravely

into the face of labor

and bring home the slayed wages

to the trinity:

his chambermaid, wet nurse and cook; (among other things)

his filthy spawn darting

through the halls

spilling the whole day behind them,

there is a pattern that emerges

between the straight lines in the lawn.

He strides through the door

with his battle helmet under his arm,

yet still impressed in his languished face,

to find a woman, worshiping his ability

to be present AND be grownup.

She tosses prayers at his magnificence

that read like front page news:

part catastrophe, part information.

Overwhelmed, his eyeballs fall back into his skull.

His mind darts,

his tongue shrivels.

In his own castle, he retreats,

knuckle smuggling firewater into his goblet.

This disorder desire,

the pattern, the dance

in their cryptic crypt

of stinging silence,

avoidance and inebriation.

His opinions drown in his belly.

She waves her hand in the air

owning the ox.

Her beast of burden is 2 days late

for putting the lines in the lawn.

She, the microhag, breathing shrapnel

grates his ass into supper’s enchiladas.


One dawn,

while the castle was under siege,

he kneels beside her

kisses her still quiet lips

and carries her to the tower.

She is saved twice.

In the air, her bloomers,

a white flag,

a surrender of irritation,

signals to intruders

there is nothing left to be taken.

She gives up and gives in concurrently.

He crowns her

with salvific majesty

just in time for the evening news.

Their ritual, a drug,

has them begging

for constant truce.


In their perfect world

where he marches home

embattled from the trials of labor

into the soft arms of his maiden

with rose stems in his teeth,

his offspring regarding his heroism,

the lines in the lawn are merely garnish.

She digests his daily brief,

his candor, enlightening.

He is the trifecta

of master, lover and compatriot.

She, the quasiprincess, breathing sonnets

polishes the throne

for his ultimate comfort

and spreads velvet on the moat.

The methodical magic,

the pattern, the dance

in their fervid fortress

of adoration and mutual imbibition

is the bliss where the credits roll.

Published in: on August 30, 2010 at 11:25 pm  Comments (4)  
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