Barbara Joan Tiger Bass

In the last poem
words disintegrate.
Soft dust of brown
moth wing. Fragment.

Ruined remnants of a doric
column. Expectant, with
the crowded mind of
the often observed.

It stalls at the exit, lingers, asks
one last how before it wafts into
holographic robes of yet to be. Then,
as the door eases on brass hinges, laughs

backwards, recites itself
and breaks.

mist pervades as I travel
in a right brain time warp

big picture forests and piles
of dead grass manifest

a soon to be demolished shed
smells vaguely of natural gas

old tools rust: vice grips, drill bits
and exacto-knives gather dust

it feels like I am dating my own life
colorless dead selves emerge

I carry them toward the brink of cognition
lay them on an imaginary stage

floats out but not
as the little man other
caretakers saw standing
in the mirror above the metal
sink late at night

the last breath, or rasp
bile heaved dark and acrid
the end

later, good death
Muktananda’s impression
blue wool cap in hand
image of dance, out
breath stilled

Such a solid, grounded
number. A real chunk
of time. Not some wafty
little fragment floating
past. Ten. And still

pain resurfaces
as absence echoes. How
we live between two
worlds. How the wind
throws it’s whisper
across the low chimes
on my deck.

Blessed spirit, beloved by those he touched

because so much
ensues untimely
find a consummate plot

suspect truth

remember evils loosed
from Pandora’s box
dull ache where Hope perched

submit to scrutiny

choose Indian black
granite rectangle slab
abide cemetery rules

italicized Roman font
Jewish star
epitaph to etch in

forever

the dead just keep being dead
and Sharon, blue like Rama
a flame in a tango dress
smiles in and out
of our minds

her seductive manner
the pony she rode
in Turkey as a child
jewels and boys stolen
from her only daughter
a drink on the dock
in Tennessee

those sapphire eyes
glint across these broken
hearts these multi-exposed
hearts bleeding so long

for PT

my friend has turned
canary yellow
a fragile whisper

I hang rose quartz around
her neck, pop malted milk balls
into our mouths

across the years this cactus grower
psychic suggested a bone knife
to YES paste collected imagery

a rubber roller to Modge Podge over
collage on a plexiglass
plate and gifted me the lilt of her laugh

metallic Mardi Gras beads
dangle in her stamped photos as we sipped
homemade pear and anise liqueurs

here, behind the plaid curtain
I tape an abstract post-card
to the metal arm of her bed

slip a pillow under her gaunt knees
find a cup for the jasmine I’ve stolen
to brighten this hospice corner

light vapors float out
a dying nova wanes

each poem sinks toward
blurred vision asks
what more can we do

he stays his course
in the large leather chair
swallows, listens

once in a while a voice
rises from the ashes
entreats us

break open narrative
let language fly