Elan Mudrow
Smidgens
Sacred Clothing
Suspenders are oblivious
To their importance
They hold shit up
Panties can only be pink once
Bras are too self-involved
Gloves never lay a hand on anything
Belts are for the buttless
Tightening up when uncomfortable
Loosening up after a few drinks
Jock Straps think too much
About Athletic Support
Jeans are multitaskers
With concentration problems
Especially if they’re hugging hips
T-Shirts only want to play
When it’s time for bed
Unless they’re a Pocket Tee
Then they have an identity crisis
Nylons can get along with anyone
Until their toes get stiff
Or their conversation skills sag
Zip ups are perverted ass pinchers
Buttons get too attached
Scarves are spiritual masters
Of Body and Soul, Yin and Yang
Unless they are 100% wool
Jackets are pretenders
to the throne of Coats
Turtlenecks are creepy
Pajamas play hooky
Drink Spanish Coffee
Lay around watching soaps
Ponchos live precariously
If they are fringed
They might be seen at night
But quickly disappear in the day
A blouse is a blouse is a blouse
The Rope (Portrait #3)
The snow is blamed, it always is, as mad as you get at it, as mad as it makes me. But, I know, like you do, now, it’s always the rope. The others don’t realize the rope’s properties, as a living thing. They aren’t mad, just frightened. They see me smile and relax. Fear rises then slips from them as I let go of you. Your weight is the weight of all of them, tethered together. Their trust is a grasp and mistakes made within a clasp.
I worry about you. We came this far. I have control and why not? I can’t hold on, or, should I say, I won’t. I mean, These rocks are our lives now, cold, rough. Can’t you see our lives through the others? As if their skeletons were glass and their skin invisible. If you could, you would see my reasoning. I have so much warmth for you, that’s why I let go. Surely, you understand. I tried to tell you before, when I said, “In the middle, I straddle both sides, I’m unsure of the footing.” It’s an attempt at balance. Slipping, You wouldn’t let me, I’m slipping, why would you let me? Let go.
They teach you the ways of balance and trust, even as you fall. Belief steers people higher upon the mountains, digging caves, stashing bones, earning interest. You, like them, become dependent upon the grasp. Even in these last seconds, I would come with you, down to the foothills Play with you in the rain, rub softness into your heart, wander in a world without holding onto to it tightly, let the water run through our hands, swallow life in one motion, not to nibble it down into to pieces until bones are exposed. My hand burns as the rope slips, what did you expect? I cut the cord. I have to.
It makes me. It speaks to me. The rope is sound, a happy voice, playing games. Your voice, so weak now. I hear two voices. I get confused. Is it them? They can’t fool me. It’s the rope. It will always be the rope, my friend. They are only echoes. I’ve been here so many times and heard. Different kinds of voices, clashing rhythms, tightened microtones, struggling with the climb. I’m sorry. You don’t believe me. Yes, you are right. I can teach them about the snow How tracks get caught in them. How tracks disappear when lingering, clouds scraping precipitation, higher upon perception. But, The rope must speak in its own tongue. I can’t ask you. I can only understand you.
Casuals Don’t Fool Anyone
Slippers are for cowards
Slip-ons are for Christmas
Morning hung-over dads
Sandals are for white people
forced into dreadlocks
on their way to burn a man
Dancing out of their money
eating spiced tempeh fries
disguised as Jesus peyote
offered by the naturopath
Indian guru of gluttony
Socks are for holy days
Pray upon the sacred hamper
Perform the rites of Wash Day
Resurrection is in the dryer
Boots are for the blues
Galoshes are for the lonely
Pumps are puking in the
Ladies’ room with panties
named Pink, lost in the midst
of the jumble of mesh
Sneakers run unaware everywhere
Dress shoes are in the closet
Clogs are fakin’ the feet
Into performing lurid acts of
Knee highs, leather, and straps
High Tops are for hook ups
High Heels are for the cranky
Swollen members of the crowd
Floating on twisted ankles
Casuals don’t fool anyone
Vastness
Moons hug tightly to their brightened lovers, never letting go, gravity keeping them together. Stars and galaxies fill the void around them, flying farther and farther apart. Their vast emptiness is not an increase in solitude. The darkness is full of energies. Sometimes I wonder, can we see love not as a singular planet, but as a cosmos?
The Instrument (Portrait #2)
I stumbled upon her, hidden behind a large sliding door, within the comfort of darkness, unmoved, silent.
Is that possible? She seemed so old, so incredibly old, as if one touch would turn her into dust.
And dust was inside, so much earthly powder rising, floating. I fanned it away, swiping three times. Breathless, I dared to look deeper.
For I knew this was a dust that could bite, its fangs lay into your skin so softly, you think you only have an itch, then a blinding light loosens upon you, never dimming.
I waited for the storm to settle and found her glimmer. She was naked, naked silver, like a dissected serpent, a flute, an instrument of sound, not chatter, dormant.
I’ve had enough of the latter to last all my lifetimes, but her body held certain tones of gravitation, melodies of singularity, connecting my emotion with thought, bunching up within me, squirming in my gut, rattling amongst my speculations.
My ears, I blamed for all confused utterances, yet I loved them, for they alone had the ability to divvy up beauty from all noise competing for my attention.
And now I had found her, mute, unmoved, and now my fingers brushed against the pitting of silver plate, the gilding of argent, rough greenish, blackish pits within metal and marks of ancient lips imprinted upon her embouchure.
A sound was made, shaped, guided, the union of a kiss. My lips wetted, my body moist, until they came following the sound.
And they smiled as if they loved me, stood in admiration, ready to woo me to the sound not the harmony.
She was just metal, wasn’t she? Who could love someone based upon a sound? It was not me, I swear. She developed warmth upon a touch and it was that heat they heard.
She dropped from my lips, the branches of my soul, back into the dusty dark, where I swear I loved her more than any, until another pair of ruby stained lips would press upon her neck.
Someone will jump back into that grave, looking for the flowers of her melody.
Apprehensive Sunlight
The floor chases the sun
Disturbing the warmth, Dust wanders
Within bent beams, embedded
In light captured heat
Moves as an animal, crawling
Never quite caught, always catching
Late leaves, blended with sidewalks
Attempt a crossing, through portal
Entering dry, slightly sifted
Remnants, now empty veins
Lost among the floorboards
Still trying, still trying, always trying
Screens are guardians, slim aluminum
Bugs not meant to be heard
Play pretend with access, asking
Confused, glancing curiosity,
Darting, from screen to screen
An escapeless web, teased by wind
The fireplace, forgotten tomb
Sits still, breathless, sullen
Until blown upon by suffocation
Sparks break out, wild upon the world
Die in the night, depthless deep
The morning buries them, softly
The sun, a cold reminder, where
Blinds attempt to illuminate
Loss of cycle, the crouching star
Until the horizon eats the beam
Spinning, spinning flat, until
Hands are rubbed together
A World Away Means We Are Dust
A world away
means we are dust
Showing a sign
Is a leaf in the crack of the sidewalk
Even if I did say
Something stupid
You know I’m true
Even though
I got mad
You know my heart is real
I’m aware
Of words
That shoot sideways
I’m guilty
Of saying
Things layered in misdirection
Even if
My tongue
Never touches yours ever again
Even if
My hands
Never feel the tautness of your stomach
I am
Your friend
Regardless of my desire
I am
An ear
Listening to your desires
But,
A world away
Means we are dust
Please,
Please,
Please,
No.
The River (Portrait #1)
The river–
Cold, of a certain depth, certain speed, enough to conceal .
Annie had freckles that hid frowns, dusty eyes—unmanageable red hair like wild wires sitting upon a strange round head.
Pulling Jessie’s wet wrists, towards the water, hands slipped away.
Annie had words to say. The words had to mean something even if they sounded like nothing.
Her voice was the trembling kind, a voice without certainty.
Such a voice carries in the forest differently. It is embraced by small sounds. It was these small sounds Annie placed hope upon, to take care of Jessie.
Jessie had been strong for her tiny stature, a rugged frame with a curvy overtone, bronzed skin and goddess hair.
It is true a river separates the banks, but they meet somewhere, either at a spring or a river, or the ocean. Such it was that Annie hoped for Jessie.
It was time for the words. First—sound of commitment, not the act itself, but the desire. Second—words of bonding. Annie kissed Jessie’s lips, frigid, but the lips should have been bluer. Third—a plea to the river. The words had to be spoken like an action, a movement of life, a movement towards death………….movement. The water never stops.
The splash of Jessie’s body echoed off the trees lining the river. They were the only other witnesses.
Was it too loud? The snow, thanks to the snow, the sound was dampened.
A couple specks danced in the air, gliding down, disappearing within the carpet of white that hid the soil.
All was quiet, until a couple of trees rubbed trunks, sounding like a wild animal with its paws sunk in dirt.
Annie raised her silent head and solicited the sky. “Touch her!”
Elan Mudrow 
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