REFLECTIONS ON CHROME
Parking Lot Confessions in Poetic Prose
by Branch Isole
Copyright © 2010
Smashwords Edition
eBook ISBN 978-0983574422
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.
Manao Publishing
Hampton, VA 23666
Order copies of this eBook at
www.branchisole.com
Author, Poet and Storyteller Branch Isole observes and comments on the motivations of our world both clothed and bare. Writing of issues and emotions often experienced but not always voiced, his style and presentation cast reflective identity against a backdrop of personal responsibility choice or avoidance. This is ‘Voyeurism Poetry’.
Reflections On Chrome contains adult themes and language, some of which is erotic or sexual in nature and presentation. Reflections On Chrome is intended for mature audiences.
Voyeurism Poetry ~ looking out, seeing in
“Many write of things known or experienced, I comment on those seen and heard.”
“Every Artist’s Decision . . . the line between selling, and selling out”
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Contents
Cherie
Closed Doors
Crowded Nest
Cruelty of Age
Discipline’s Disciple
Disrespect
Emote Motif
Escape
Fit To Be Tied
Frustration
Game Day
Going Going Done
Heartfelt
Held
How Do Stars Pop the Question?
Identity Theft
In the Breach
Influential Sorts
Insatiable Sex Bum
It’s Hard
Latt1é Chat
Living Loving Memory
Lost in Thought
Menopause
Obit
Oedipus Revisited
One Bottle of Beer, One Cup of Coffee
Parousia Timetable
Personal Resolution
Private Cell Phone, Public Conversation
Purpose
R.E.M.
Repentance
Retribution
Rooms
Second Hand Smoke
Sharing the World
She Said
Someday
Stone Washed Genes
Strain and Complain
Terrible Toos
Thought Train
Thank Yous
The Trough
Twin Towers
Two Sided Coin
What
Woman’s Day
Worlds
XYZ Lamentations
Young Love
Introduction
Everyone has a story to tell. Issues and events become the tenor of our lives. Most are told and retold to friends, then to acquaintances and eventually to anyone who will listen.
These intimate late night lamentations between friends often hold the greatest amount of truth and pain. With the first telling, the raw emotions of the experience and the people involved are exposed without the machinations of embellishment or feigned pity. It is from this initial spark of conversation the story takes on its ability to grow in many different directions, infused with a myriad of festering thoughts and feelings.
All over our world tonight, best friends are hearing for the first time, stories of life’s emotional traumas. Many are taking place as parking lot confessions.
Branch Isole
the Voyeuristic Poet
“Living is easy with eyes closed. Misunderstanding all you see.”
-Lennon/McCartney-
“Strawberry Fields Forever”
‘Magical Mystery Tour’
©1967 Capitol Records
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Cherie
Harassing her daily
part and parcel
of their ride home
in the belly of the yellow beast
Two little Jonahs
with nothing more to do
than torment a girl
named Cherie
The goal,
leave her crying
by the time she stepped off the bus
We did our clowning
while in her tears
she’d be drowning
Called her ‘the chow’
Each time I remember it now
on these long and lonely
afternoons
it is my heart that breaks,
aches
Pre-teen boys
with an exuberance of ignorance
and cruelty shown
toward one who wanted only
to be left alone
I hope she’s there
to see us flogged
through our embarrassment
and shame
For the terrible things
we said and claimed
and the horrible ways
we criticized
her being and her name
I hope she’s there to see
the skin stripped from our backs
With a sense of vengeance
and revenge,
for the kindness
and compassion
we both did lack
I hope through our anguish
she obtains relief
and for our childish pranks
we are adopted by her grief
The thing is,
when our day finally comes
and we are presented
as the arrogant and selfish ones
we were back then
on so many an afternoon,
my guess is
instead of our doom
Cherie will be standing
in a forgiving light
emanating strength
from a thousand points
of love’s majestic might
She’ll be there
the innocent and beautiful one
and all will see
she has finally won
My guess is
she’ll overlook
what inconsiderate bastards
were we
For neither then nor now
could we live up to
the character of Cherie
Closed Doors
Behind closed doors
where prying eyes can’t go
lurk motives and behaviors
hidden from public view
Good, bad and ugly
dwell within
Harm and love abound
in varying degrees
among young and old alike
both male and female types,
from terrible violence
to petty gripes
We are shocked to discover
beneath our neighbor’s pleasant veneer
lives and breathes a monster,
next door
down the block
ever so near
Facade and mask
correctly in place
hiding
covering
veiling the face
The one which lies
to others,
to self
One put up on
and taken down
off the shelf
Drama stricken
Living in fear
Fear of discovery
Fear of the truth
Fear of calling
a spade a spade
Moving forward
while whitewashing stains
of a life in retrograde
Aware an illness
does exist
Using rationalization
Claiming victimization
Denying responsibility
Controlling every fix
The person
The couple
The family,
most likely to what?
Succeed
Succumb
Perpetrate
Perpetuate
Escape,
from themselves?
Crowded Nest
Blank mind, black
Blank page, white
Empty slate, writer’s block
Pinpoint, tunnel’s light
Seedling thought
Germinating words, unknown
Hidden points of view
Shades and shadows overwhelm
masked, veiled,
shrouded lightly
struggling to bloom
Expressions, expressly
begging to be freed
Stumbling, tumbling
desiring egress
Forming cohesive word order
on paper’s placement
from mind’s crowded nest
A poem exists somewhere therein
for lyricist’s poetic mind
never really rests
It’s goal, divulge
once again
better
better
best
Oh covetous, elusive words
soaring beyond mind’s reach
Beseeching they become
parts of lines
to stretch
grow
and weave
Into tales
to be told
of adventures brave,
and ventures bold
Cruelty of Age
His libido has died
but he’s still alive
What a cruel joke to play
on adulthood
Now it becomes clearer
when they declare
‘Youth, is wasted on the young’
Discipline’s Disciple
He was just
who he was
parenting skills
learned and passed on
Abuse and mayhem
disguised and labeled
discipline,
the cycle unbroken
The first time
they saw him
he slept on the couch,
that was at
her grandparents’ house
Staring blankly
at the stranger
Then,
at each other
Who was this man?
They would ask
her mother
Recollection was
his anger cursed
with four letter words
interspersed
He was just
who he was
parenting skills
learned and passed on
Putting his hand
through the window pane
By his tirade orated
you’d thought him a man
gone insane
Abuse and mayhem
disguised and labeled
discipline,
the cycle unbroken
Anger and frustration
grew inside,
while those around him
learned to hide
He was just
who he was
parenting skills
learned and passed on
Moments of compassion?
There was one or two
but in four thousand days
that’s relatively few
Abuse and mayhem
disguised and labeled
discipline,
the cycle unbroken
For those there companioned
who knew his fists well
life under his roof
was a living hell
The day he died
was bittersweet
Parting years earlier
separation
now hung in the air
still incomplete
She went to see him
the other day
to forgive,
and simply to say