Mark Mizrahi

Santa Ana Runs Through it.

I am the broken pieces
of a vase that holds no flowers.
The confetti, fallen, like victims to the floor
long long after the party is done.
I am the whirling mass, the gnarled parts, the cranking, creaking, cracking mass of a factory that is churning no more while the empty halls ring hollow,
asking: “where, where did she go?”
To the coast on a fault-line, an earthquake just rolling
through the peaks and valley of an old time okie’s
leaving only destruction and devastation in her wake.
Watch out for the rumble, duck and cover,
because right about now chicken little is coming,
a fairy tale Paul Reverie with the warning: the sky is not done falling.
So what, you think, let the sky tear
let it come calling
then judgement will arrive to solve this
little mess we call appalling.
And the rebel remains, those still crawling in the rubble, can be the pall bearers for all the other
nice little stories those other fools followed.
I’ll follow her anyway, just to glimpse her sordid belly, under which rests the forgotten and the helpless
who claim: God is a monster, No, God is a blessing,
No; God is a cracker that went stale before morning.
She can wrap me in her arms, tell me lies, lead me on.
She can give me all I want, with the slightest touch of her tongue
speaks so smoothly, making promises and inciting
a wild fireworks display
like freedom parades I’ll never make.
And once its all broken, left to drift into the sea,
when the sickness in my belly is replaced with salted tears,
then I’ll recall how exactly it was that we got here:
by a careless toss into the air, the fingers slipping grabbing only the flowers flying everywhere, the crash, the crash
the crash my dear,
of your favorite vase against the floor
you hear
The quiet sobs of a hundred-thousand souls
And see the pieces on the floor
that the king will never put back together again.

Promote. Poetry.
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