"in a looking-glass that sees both ways"

 

*(The poet approaches the mic, leans in, voice is a low hum.)*

A poem is a mirror.
A **ɹoɹɹıɯ**.
A yes-I-can with crayons the color of Tachyons,
rushing out of whirl’ds where past-meets-future,
reaching **for-words**…
yet going **back-words** for some more.

It makes reflections, like a ripple,
but you’re at zero-point too,
where the puddle tessellates to a past in the future *you*,
and you reflect it back-words and for-words
'til it reverberates…
right there.
Now.
Here.
Like an invertendo-innuendo that’s an in-your-face…
**ɹoɹɹıɯ**.

*(Pace picks up, a hint of paranoia, a conspiratorial whisper.)*

And this mirror-Kah… it *rackles* with the spirit of the times.
This mirror… reciprocates.
And everything recorded is written everywhere for anyone to see—
a hit-list for the insurgents,
a collapse scenario for the empire,
as the top one-percent feed the roots of alien, alternative… cycles.

But listen.
‘I see you, you see me’
and maybe together we’re spied-upon in an irony
of what it’s like not to be truly free.
So we carry on.
In a more human innuendo,
a more momento-mori story,
mirroring each other… more merrily.

*(Rhythm becomes a slow, rolling, cyclical chant.)*

Another cycle of the Sun,
rollin’ ’round the earth ‘yer on,
then in cycles turned your way,
yes, another day…
where cycles in the Sun are glimmerings on the Sea,
making many reflections,
and sympathetic tessellations vibrate in our oceanic-brain,
where the orbits perigee,
where we learn the lessons of leaving behind
and faltering forward,
where we would-if-I-could be the king who would be a man,
riding these cycles of the Sun by the Sea,
going on this way…
over and over…
mirrorly.

*(Voice turns sharp, staccato, aggressive.)*

And we become these just-in-time
**poet-ninJa assassins,**
recycling those one-percenters who wannabe left alone
with all of the crayons.
We reflect their creme-de-la-creme in our extra hot latte,
and with every word we missed the mark with,
we feed the roots of further cycles
than ever they bloomed before.
Splash.
Of.
Color.

*(Tone shifts to gratitude, warmth, a big-hearted exhale.)*

So thank-you, Poets.
For the many reflections.
For the big-hearted yawp of freedom to be who you want to be.
Thank you for sharing your wrought-out ramblings
where my meaning-making takes a rest
and instead, with great exaltation, I surrender
to how you all ‘fess-up and down and around
and always… with a wry wit in it.

It’s bright.
It echoes the numinous in-us.
The euphoric-eunoia.
The bright language of connecting,
an authentic friending in a lightning look…
in intertextual-fugues,
invertendo-innuendos,
or mirrorly… by-the-book.

*(Voice drops to a final, intimate, questioning whisper.)*

So is that it then?
This eunoia-euphoria…
this urge-to-merge?
Is that it?
Expressed in longing waves,
swelling in each other as sister and brother?
Is that it?
When you’ve engaged both sides of the brain…
the scholar and the minstrel…
is that the euphoria we’re after?

*(Poet holds the silence for a beat, then steps back.)*