Eddie Roa

What have I gotten myself into?
A commune of faggots, dilettantes,
Men In mistaken milieus
Ladies feigning radical chic
...

I espied a red glint
In between the cracks
On the wooden panels
Of a locked up closet
...

The foothills are rueful and evasive today
Their outline glow seems palled and
The twilight reluctant to give up the light
The sun a dull emboss on weak pink,
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Tell him not to go
Tug at his coat sleeves
Cry out in plea
Won’t you?
...

Hey! I saw you
I told the breeze as he swooped
And lifted a lady’s skirt
With no one seeing us
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Sparrows in my mind
Scratching for ort
Stirring a host
Crowding in my bowels
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I lived in depths of a hundred fathoms
Where days are dark and cold
Darting shrimps leave silver streaks
The only light to be seen at noon
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Stranger from the highlands and cold climes
Your gaudy costume and cleated shoes
Speak of romance and never ending adventures
What can you tell me of the land that you came from?
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The frog proclaims unabashedly
Within hearing of everyone
He brags that he has paid his dues
And did it even before the last hour,
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...

The sounds came rushing in, where did it come from?
Has it always been there? Angels’ halleluiahs, God’s riant laughter
Pervasive, reverberating in crescendo at the gladdening hour,
Trilling with early birds, buzzing, whirring with the bees on morning forage
...

I come to you now unclothed, unwashed and unabashed,
This is my barest, lowliest, truest self,
With wanton passions brimming, ogling with animal intent
This is me wallowing neck deep in the sweet but unctuous tar pit
...

...

Throw the door wide open and rejoice
With spread arms and welcoming laughter
Oh, my beloved is back from a long sojourn
A perilous odyssey in distant shores
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each petal that falls even
from the homeliest blossom
is grieved by the congregation
of blooms in the garden
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Face with dignity the dreaded Pied Piper
Follow his lead and not hesitate in your stride
The end is everyone’s fate
No argument has ever won its case
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Lord I do not wish
To hide from you,
I’m too lazy, I say
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On A Far Away Beach At Dawn

Your face is etched in the stars that dot a sky about to lose its black
Mirrored as a reflection on a luminous sheet of sea at low tide
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Let’s not talk about terrorism, write, nor broadcast it
No more the sight of blood and gore from dismembered
Carcasses of men and women, young and old, and the tender flesh
Of babies scattered, alighting on treetops and eaves of houses
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listless on a sofa,
on a mental walkabout,
upon a surreal scene,
of crumbly purple glades
...