Three Poems
by Stephen Mead
CARAPACE
Horny is this scarab head, & these plates, luminous—–
Shell of locust wings meeting rainbow bubbles
but shellacked as enamel, nail-hard & clacking
since security demands some front against attack.
Are the pincers & segmented armor enough defense
over a body of soft gossamer?
Between cracks, silver bits glisten, hinting of a universe
lenses envelop the skin of, lenses mirroring back
the beetle teeth to flee from & the phantom panic hordes…
Doesn’t some regiment begin on these shield’s other side,
a force field of predators humming, & I, just another insect
wild enough for the bluff?
From what lapis fair skies shall the plague rain,
the heat, the dust descend, a pestilence stirred mad?
Here I scuttle through its vision wondering what god
would allow such wanton hunger,
such a ravenous holocaust.
HANDS UP
Terror is the anger of anguish
or is the anguish of anger, terror?
What question is this screaming, & here, there,
what business of mine? Silence does not answer me.
Silence is a gravure Photostat blown up over
an unmonitored war screen.
Does the trigger feel video’s detachment
as a shelling of red rain covers real lands
naked eyes do not see?
Feeling it is to hear a jackknife on the interstate,
the guardrails jump & the blasted metal sizzling.
Feeling it is to know the turning wheel
as your own unlucky crossfire
going up in flames but for the grace of…
Now, as mist, drift outside this.
Remain neutral with no blame placed on the fact
for wasn’t what happened as unstoppable
as loving friends at a distance hooked to unrequited strings?
What tyrants smuggling; what dreams deferred
in the victim politicized?
Who toys with those boys in covert arms dealing?
Who the pimps, who the rough trade?
As a result don’t pockets bulge – some with sawdust,
some with money, while natural disaster & random plague
dashes everything’s hope for a time?
Meanwhile, as if in between therapist blues
we dash back & forth with superhero hands out
under invisible capes smeared with newsprint
between bodies falling.
DEPENDENCIES
Here is a dice roll. Here is a coin.
Flip, flip—–
Enter the anxiety phase, that multi-scene dream
of elevators, escalators, tiers of turns.
Crowds appear, all familiar strangers
whispering shouts, spraying secrets
or there is silence & it’s telepathic,
every lip a fluid riddle locked on sense completely.
Strange angels, strange atmosphere,
& when I came to such dependency
I became the asker of the unanswerable
& the unquestionable lost its solid state.
Hercules was there, yet he was also Hera,
& both of them knew there was a problem
between the legs. This was a sort of clearing
& clarity knew the problem was also between
the ears & right outside. However, between the ears
& outside the conflict kept growing so sometimes
they combined entirely & sometimes they entirely
kept combining ’til there was nothing left except
for separateness which was the point, & beside the
& the conflict so serious it seemed like nature,
it seemed like breathing.
Then they laughed or cursed &, in any case,
handed the list of trial & error, or trial & success to me.
For awhile I tried keeping track, I older than Methuselah,
older than them both, but no wiser nor more innocent,
no more male than female or weak than strong.
I, one of the young ancients in the eternal age
of pot luck, gathered the widest variety of incense,
made one candle an altar & am still searching
for a proper size palm to carry that balm of a flame.
Resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall, The Chroma Museum, Stephen Mead is a retiree whom, throughout all his pretty non-glamorous jobs still found time for writing poetry/essays and creating art. Occasionally he even got paid of this. Currently he is trying to sell his 40 year backlog of unsold art before he pops his cogs: Art Collection from Stephen Mead
COLD SIGNAL 