From: The Ticktockman <tktokman@ix.netcom.com>


My sulky poem, or rant, or whatever...

Facing my reflection in the glass of
the sliding door i smile.
It smiles back.  i glare
It grows angry. i cross my legs.
The other i relaxes.
It selects a book.
i prepare to read.

the full moon's light
casts shadows like Easter Island statues
fallen to the ground
over indistinct lumps of furniture
flattening the stained and withered carpet
and i am rendered a shade darker
a shade heavier

A fringe of torn cloth 
forms a spider by my neck.
Imagine eight black eyes
reading over my shoulder.
Imagine eight black legs
hooked into my flesh.
i imagine spinnerettes working
like a famished Clotho,
working to trap her prey.

The phone rings at my back,
its scream cut off 
like a sharp pull of the blade
across its throat.
A voice.  Your voice. The voice.
A brush with warmth
ginned cotton, white sands
a momentary lifting of the shadow's weight
of the shadow's dark.

By the full moon's light
we read a story.
It has robots who want to be human
and Martians who aren't the monsters 
we make them out to be.
Elves so old they no longer care
for trees that have aged and died
and a unicorn taming a virgin.
A hero in black, a heroine in violet
with names as familiar as. . .
And all trapped in the story
waiting for the last page to turn.

Soon i am webbed into the cushions
by the full moon's light.
Another shadow falls upon me.
My reflection has a friend,
the friend.
Webbed into the cushions 
with shadows laid upon me i
can only nod and try a smile.
My thoughts reflect off the glass,
food for moths and gnats.
If i opened that door would i find you
or only your reflection?
Silk strands snap in quiet applause.
i pull the curtains shut
drop the book
undress
and hold myself
Awake