je ne sais pas

it isn't the differences that terrify.

awakening the dreamer sweating bullets
just this side of an arm's reach
aiming now at the head--
burning closets and Kahlo bridal beds
in a bush fire of regret

(Dreamtime passages slither by on calloused belly
Ouroboros scales iridescent fall to the wayside .)

oh, yes! horribly and precisely, yes
it is the sameness, the exact sameness
that is feared....

there it is:

...the Nazi
prototype stalking the perfect
opportunity to ravage and lay claim to the sainthood
of a universal soldier one kill away
from the black swastika carved into his heart

there it is:

...the wasteland into which the poet sinks,
clueless, after a night of oblivion
without her toolbox of marrow
ripe and red with
the circular moon,

it is here:

when no brushstrokes of the perfect line dance on the wall
with the sound of tubular bells ringing in the air,
remembered as if her poet hands were caught in Sylvia's belljar
or a shoebox of ripening poems,
Roethke and Yeats bickering with Frost over
which way the crow flies

it is here in the jungle death:
sans Gauguin to alleviate the jungle dwelling and swelling
of the tom tom primordial beat, engulfing flames of
being alive, screaming one last time:
surrender! surrender! surrender!

it is here
no sunflowers from the artist's palette turn towards another black-holed sun
shedding tears of mercy, tears of famine,
children's lacerations with the ugly dog of truth that never quite heal
even if they grow up to be the innocent young
of social animals

it is here
no reflections survive in a serene French pond where the iris unfolds
its purple heart
pale and lovely moons ago
when love whispered and made promises
it would never keep,

(to do so would be an
act of betrayal)

the sheets are soaked raw and the only thing that
haunts

indifference.

1/20/11

~Acc

Sounds like you might be describing a cold calculating person , or life