Denise Janikowski-Krewal
Balancing Scales
Jinna with the silver
Streaked black hair Bronzed her punk boots The day they wore out Holes in soles Cracked leather creases Took a beating from Gravel and concrete Tar speckled Reckless dance partners Spilled beer Caved to sensible shoes, Utilitarian life, Practical soul Still aching for the Painful pointed toes That made her kick and scream Ill fit, inducing a fight Against any injustice Now a prop against A door held partially open To keep the Comfortable fit From forgetting the silver tress That Jinna still proudly wears Into justice halls With her black robe Now wielding a gavel Procrastinator's Stew
Paging through color photos
Mysteriously coded instructions Appearing as gibberish To a clouded mind, Growling stomach Frustrated by epic long lists Of foreign ingredients Evading a sad larder Crying out For a farmer’s market fix, Spice market sit-in Butcher’s brawl, Baker’s punching bowl, Begging for an air-drop Into a cramped kitchen With a half-hour Til company arrives Time only for Speed-dial, A quick Ciao And a pick up Of Italian carry-out Contemplation #1
Accidentally chasing Death
Watching the topsy-turvy Metal crunch Plastic crack In a traffic jam Behind a hearse Eerie bumper to bumper In a flash Encompassing fifty years Taking a left turn Only to follow A truck Carrying a “Grabbit” digging machine Orange reflective triangles Reflecting on Life In the slow lane That made a right Into the cemetery Caught between a lamp post And Reality While the radio played “You have a long way to go Before you grow old…” And the sun returned Lighting contentment On an unhurried path 
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Left Bank
Sold out Sadie
Selling paintings Washed up on a beach Washed out dress Washed out socks in the bathtub Stinky socks, stinky life, stinking drunk Socks in a bathtub making her leave Her solidified paint and petrified lover Selling out her gallery to a kitchen sink In the basement for a drink In the life of a baron Who holds no land or title, Just more barren bathtubs and sinks Selling out and selling drinks Quasi life, half-life, never strife, kill the wife Selling out sailors Stealing from bankers Selling out tellers and Closeting her boss for cocktails in cellars. Stellar cellars, I might add. Leaving the barren for an oil baron Sealing his fate, stealing his plunder, Ever reigning Eyes are raining in the trail of desolate conspirators left behind No more paintings, no more strife No more money, no more wife, Just a washed up dress on an oily beach With sunglasses and a fresh drink. Kicks Retired
Climbing aboard the
Dusty orange bus with Squealing brakes, Carbon monoxide That covered every surface Within range Calling out to a Sense of adventure Open road, clear air, Clearer thoughts, Feeling of freedom that Appealed to some feral urge Within urban constraints Stepping onto Dirt ridden steel steps Lunging forward With the clink of the Glass fare box, Sweat of the driver, Pre-air conditioning Aromas of summer humans, Rose perfume, Yesterday’s corn chips, Stainless lunch boxes Sitting on brown vinyl Next to Finger smudged windows That neither opened Nor closed Without a fierce struggle Like all those fates Aboard The Route 66 Heading toward a Perceived paradise Just as adventurous As the historic highway For a kid who never before Left the south side Of the city The D & A Words
Frank, the former
Iron forger With eternally rusted shirts Fears each morning, Aches in his heart, Glancing through A third eye At long lived, Long loved Lisa Forgetting herself Forgetting their life Singing of An ambulance ride To Shangri-La Above the fog Below the deep blues Anchoring into miry, Unintended silt Keeping watch over Missing memories |