Ode to Mary Jo

“Wild and wooly” the term used by surfers when expressing oceanic conditions.
     For me it is the state of affairs when I see your hair, a lush black mane peppered with streaks of gray going white. Convoluted at the root, springing haphazardly aware of its surrounding at all times, reflecting the architect that you are. I often wonder how long it actually is since the coiled nature tightly taut never seems to grow. Its origins thicken, striking a buoyancy that parrots your walk. A subterranean layer peeking out, projecting a weathervane-like form predicting inclement conditions days before the storm lands.

Photo: Cec Lepage

Crush

Have your ever wanted someone so badly you grew at the merest thought of them?
     Whereby, your daily bike route has you cycle past a row of brownstones not knowing, yet innately aware of where they live?
     Not obsessed yet comfortably possessed by them. Their air, their smiling nod from across the room. Their musing ways falling suddenly silent, focussed,  gathering thoughts before delivering a beguiling reply bringing the house down in bubbling laughter.
     Azure blue eyes, hair like a wheat field that crowns an effervescent spirit.
     Have you ever had a parched heart quenched by the memory of another?

Image by Cec LePage

Bon Voyage

Early morning a friend calls announcing he’s leaving NYC. Self preservation made the decision. Taking a lung filled breath, I sigh selfishly, quietly. The town taking more than it once gave, The Big Apple’s now sauce. His flight is set South to regroup, reenergize, replace woes with renewed vision that the pavement beat out of him. As my day started on this path, the avalanche continued its ominous stretch, like a train wreck, broiling blue skies into tar with Murphy’s Law as an ally. Evening settling into night, heavy eyed, wrung out, thinking of him, I smile, “Phoenix.”

Image: Detail of a painting by David Cunningham,
oil on wood panel, private collection.

NYC 2012, It’s too damn hot.

This heat, is the hot that is all encompassing, forever touching and licking you salty to saltier. It’s pore awakening, lung breaking, dripping, sticking, shrilling things like: “Don’t even look at me” sort of scorch. “Even your balls call it getting too close.” Ceiling fan spinning overhead mixing tepid air hot, just whirling the atmosphere dizzy. Sexy barely there outfits on bikes, shinny reflective surfaces wet your vision. Walkers, snail through the city streets being slowed by the gum stretching along relentlessly a pink string growing blacker with every slumbrous step, collecting all manner of memories with them.

Image: Cec LePage photo of a planet documentary as seen on PBS.

Saturday night awakes to the Sibilant sound of Light

Sunday sings a sleepy song. Southern exposure shoots shards of hot white flood-like brightness, blinding the portraits hung on Victorian plum walls. No dark shadows lurking, pure crisp lines dancing undisturbed over last night’s array of tossed lingerie and slightly sipped flutes of champagne whose sparkles fizzled their final pop hours ago. Dormant pools in finely cut crystal becomes alive. Refractions set ablaze a spectrum of color on a skin-toned landscape. It’s a tango, imprisoning a prism of color over flesh barely covered by slippery satin sheets. We ponder the method of this muse that shakes us awake, squinting.

Image by Cec LePage

Lemonade

Times were getting tough, honing wit and innovation. Sighting the NYC food truck invasion coupled with peoples blind faith, lotto and their relentless quest for answers through air, inspired. The lady rode around town with a bicycle basket full of fortune cookies. She sold them for a buck a piece . It was her way of making a living in a world gone mad with taking chances, chancing a glimpse to see their future. Let’s face it, it's a lot cheaper than calling one’s own personal professional psychic as seen on TV and a hell of lot more accurate.

Image from Lawsagna.

Generosity or Pay to Play

I stopped inhaling your kind words long ago. Those spoken, written in gifted books or greeting cards. But every very so often the evidence resurfaces. Now numb to their loving messages. Once beautiful, to merely black ink incisions on cream colored parchment leaving only indentations. Scars, really. As though written in a foreign language, this script was given to another who no longer exists. Erased, by the violent sweep of your lacerating tongue.
     I’ve scrubbed clean most traces of you. Sometimes wearing the bestowed jewels, loosing the elaborate story of your generosity when admired. A quick “thanks” replaced that illusion.

Image by: Cec LePage

Forgotten Women

Apple shopping today I spied the shadow of a women I once knew, sitting on a Siamese water pipe. Head down, yellow cap sat snug hiding her eyes. Gray coarse hair shot from it, brushing stooped shoulders. She had aged and morphed into an old man sporting hip hop garb. Sitting there sun drenched in a shrouded sadness. Lost was the smile that defined her being. Looping back I thought I’d say hello, knowing she’d remember me. The pipe resumed its purpose, static. She had vanished, pouf, appearing and disappearing just like the entourage who had left her behind.

Image by: Cec LePage

The Inner Asp

Tears? Toxic waste exposed, pouring tempestuously, was the harbinger of tranquil felt today. Letting the flood gates release over dinner, salty drops seasoned her plate as she ate and relived the anguish harbored and fed. Vulnerable bubbles bled, willynilly. The turbulence, that had drenched her bed sheets, lay dormant in little bits of glistening crystals, dark clouds, tissues, grief dried up. Last nights woes can now be collected and flushed away. Life is interesting. When all seems lost, tears expose their hiding place as they unfold and roll over flesh swabbing up sorrow that can later be discarded so easily.

Image by: Cec LePage

Night Crawler

Meandering Marla leaves me, offering congratulations to the celebrated girl at the New Museum. I take to the outdoor space, filling lungs with crisp evening air, under a full on starry night, glimmering. Highlighted above are Venus and Jupiter in full regalia smiling down at me. A man appears from nowhere, lost his friend, says he. I reply “Me too, mine’s MIA amongst the black cladded crowd.” He’s waxing poetic celestials, marvelling over darkened sky. Agreeing it’s a rare NYC moment, Juan Carlos then apprehends my ass as his own rare Manhattan opportunity. “Just another night crawler on earth.” B-bye!

Image: Cec Lepage

ABreast

Darling.

A note to you. The sun is shining bright. Sitting here, looking to the ocean so close,
the absolute end of it’s frothy crest tickle my toes.
Yes, titillate, trickling breaths of the former life back into me.
Yes, it’s lapping my body, the ebb and flow, heal.
Yes the part of me that is gone, eradicated, goes to the ocean
and what comes forward is, not a lack but renewed strength.

This may sound sophomoric, perhaps, perhaps it does.
But the their, there, in the horizon has living to be done.
I shall do it with one.

Yours,



Sketch by Cec Lepage, NYC