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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




Picture

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

Comments

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