A lacuna
between us,
so I bridged out an arm
across her shoulder,
made slow circles
on her bare arm,

Meanwhile
Noah built his
ship, afloat
despite its
strange design,

One could trust
Russell Crowe on
such earth-saving
matters.

When it got too much,
she plucked my stiff arm,
clasped it with her left,
lay them parallel yet
in unison between
our chairs,

Fingers finding gaps
among her fingers,

A dove flew in,
land ahoy!
it chirped.

I will slay the Beast
Eragon that damb fire breathing
Menace of a dragon
fly
swatted with my unsheathed sword
I will Purge its bowels
and sanctify my words in iridescent glass ink
I'll shoot Stupid Cupid out of the sky with a sharp pointed arrow ball point pen
Take out the Man in the Moon
Eat a slice of humble pie
my favorite...can taste it now actually
when I left  in such a huff
Cut my hands off to spite my face
How am I ever going to write poetry now
and...
Climb those Church walls that look like a castle...making a rope from crumpled paper
Maybe I can ask you to dance
I'm good at all kinds though a country waltz sure sounds dandy
yup...my cowboy boots and tight fittin jeans Conway

or hang out somewhere in the great big city
make it BIG like Tom
Or carry out a Mission Impossible
we could end up back together
Stranger things have happened

I might have an apoplexy and end up in The Nut House
Should I commit Harry Carey and end up in prison
You want to hear truth
I'll tell you some truth
I don't know if you can handle this truth or not
I'll tell you it in perfect comedic timing,
in my dictation, in my phrasing ,
puddling of lines
and cleverly sounding rhyming
ya I'm a poet sure I am
I can chew on a few magic mushrooms smoke some *****
raise our social consciousness if it helps
Find a little more of my madness because  my madness
maybe even my sadness
helps
to see the world a little more beautifully
look a little more than the guy looking at his feet as he walks down the street
I'll skip a rock across the ocean in rippling wonder with just flick of my pen
paint the mountains with such a crisp contrast they look like paper cutouts
and the clouds
alright... looks like Zeus is up there with his arms folded in anger
dark grey outlines his feet
thunder rolls from his belly
stomping around, crashing lighting
on tips the of billowing bright white golden fleeced
gauze drenched clouds
like the back of a newborn lamb
Oh..
Don't you want to touch it

I might jump Johnny's pirate ship across the sky in the blackened
night navigating through the Stars
laughing menacingly
at the starlit tears guiding us
and at the ghostly fleets chasing
I will be the one looking back at you
in the mirror and show you what you  need to see
do I have the power of discernment?
No...just a poet
I guess I'm a poet after all
so send me your Peter Pan and Tinker Bell dreams
I'll dance with the little teapot and dip the Little Spoon
in the river  
with Aesop playing bagpipes to catch us some dinner
shoot straight at a carnival game
knock them all down
expert shot.
First try
next?

I knew you'd Miss Me When I'm Gone
It's part of the poetic curse
my poetic curse
I'm just a poet

though my words will always be here for you to read.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

Fragile flickering celluloid reels
Behind the light of the projector
A single beam of changing colors
Displayed on the silver screen ahead.
Fixtures dim and black the room
Filled an audience anxious and waiting,
Waiting to see what’s to be seen.
I love the look of film!
In its variety of size and color
35mm and 70
Digital and Film
Black and white to Technicolor
Three dimensions or two.
The history of an art form
Forming before your eyes
Seen here are the scenes of time
From anywhere that’s been seen
A dynamic show of lives lived and lost
Brought in pieces pieced together
By those much like us
Unfolding a world survived
By war and a way of life lost
Fallen years ago
Survived by the look of cellulloid
A world encompassed in film;
Where time is never lost
And life is always found.

:)

The light of the television
dimly lit two
lovers,
but not really.
He stunk of wine
from the lips and
mauve teeth,
she stunk of wine
by proxy.
her legs, only slightly
unshaven, he stroked
gently, which they
both enjoyed, but
not really.

***** pots, plates, and
cutlery lay placid
in the sink.
They'll be washed
sometime soon,
and put away in  
cabinets of wasted
white wood, very soon,
but not really.

The floor, like them,
began growing clothing
like wild moss or ivy,
and claimed the room
& claimed them too.

The movie, he'd recall,
but, then, she would
not.
He watched the blood,
and conflict,
and at times laughed,
and she saw him,
and conflict,
and didn't laugh at all,
which he knew was strange,
but not really.

On the dim, small, screen,
The lean and hungry man had his
Nemesis on the
sepia-tone ground,
and finished it all,
with rage and mercy,
with a stomp
to the
heart.

They watched, her eyes wide,
for she knew this was
them, her on the ground,
and him in the air, and she gripped
him a bit tighter,
which he noticed,
but not really,
which she noticed,
but not really.
In the dimly lit room,
they could not see
they were alone,
and it was true,
only Bruce Lee & He,
and She.

You made me wait for 45 minutes at a Banh Mi shop as the afternoon sun
morphed into a ceiling of darkness. I read a story on Buzzfeed
about break ups and relationship rocky as the road my car sat on.
The gas station was lit up like a theme park, but no one arrived,
and soon I believed you'd been taken, or you'd forgotten about me.
The cicadas started chirping and the humidity in the air cooled down,
and when I was about to turn over the engine, your black Honda scuttled into the parking space covered in puddles. As though, you knew
you could survive on any terrain, whether rough, or wet, smooth, or dry.
We talked briefly, small chit-chat, nothing worth mentioning.
I had already devoured a double-cheese burger and some fries,
but I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to ruin your appetite.
You touched my bicep, told me to flex. I did as I was told, like an old dog, wanting to please its master. My muscle hurt after your fingers drew away, as though my skin showed a wound, something ugly and worn.
I tried to smile, but inside I was drowning in false ****** expressions, and shortcut body language. We went inside, shuffling to the L-shape line, you picking up Mochi Ice-cream from the freezer, and me just happy to be in your presence. You said, you missed me and I knew you mean it too.
I said, you don't know how good it is to see you. You nodded and put your head on the nape of my shoulder. Closing your eyes momentarily, I touched your hip and held on for dear life. Because all around us, war battered young and old in countries stricken by fear and poverty. Gifs and Memes provided us with distractions, as you showed me the trailer to a new rom-com. They're just like us, you said.
You're right, I said. I gave you back the phone, before the trailer ended.

I'm sitting in a theater and watching my life on the screen
Every song I've ever loved plays in the background
I see myself underscored by lyrics I wish I wrote
All of my moments are time perfectly
To crescendo and dissolve on cue
And it fades to black before we see my big decision
Do I run from the edge? Do I hide myself away again?
Or do I pursue the life I seem to crave,
And earn my sweeping cinematic moment
While my favorite song plays in the background?

The credits roll and the music presses on
And before long I realize
That I've been staring out a car window
Listening to music that makes my heart hurt
And wishing that life were scripted
Yet again

Wimbledon’s playing on the TV in the living room. Dad and I are watching on the sofa.

In the kitchen, Mom cuts carrots and cucumbers with a long blade. She slices the vegetables one by one. Orange pieces. Green pieces.

I glance over Mom chops up the carrots and cucumbers without a cutting board, taking each long carrot and cucumber and slices it with precision, as though she’s a professional like the film with Natalie Portman and Jean Reno.

But she’s not a little girl and she’s not a Frenchman. She’s like a mix-in-between, like the asphalt in our driveway and the grass sprouting in between the cracks.

Dad is a computer engineer. He used to be an artist. Used to study technical drawing in a university in Saigon.

He met mom when he was working on a play. She was the lead actress. Shakespeare had said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.”

He’s right, but right now I can’t tell what act I’m in. Dad focuses on the TV. Watches Federer and Djokovic, his eyes, darting from left to right like the mood of a young boy that crosses back and forth from light to dark, and back again.

Blade in hand, Mom makes longer and deeper cuts across the cucumber, cutting away the skin, leaving deep cuts in the vegetable. Dad turns his head towards her, his neck cracking like the forehand swung by Federer.

He clears his throat, softly, soft as gas leaking out from a stovetop from a studio apartment, like the scene in Fight Club, a match about to be struck.

Mom sets the blade down on the table, and bites her lip. Her nostrils flare. I press down on the couch arm, and stand up, my head bent, my eyes wandering to the doorway.

The wind whistles
Here I am, me and my consciousness
Watching an old movie outside of common sense
I love you and I always have

I want to see if we can connect the old wiring
Let the electricity flow through the vein
It seems when I drink my words are more fluid
But here I am stuttering again