Notes from the Balcony

Every sixteen minutes 
At a loss for candy canes 
And angels in the snow 
As we usher in another effigy of aging 
Veiled as a year end’s celebration
I am setting out a glass of Veuve Clicquot 

The static on the TV flickers 
In the vein of an ignited candle wick 

Candy wrappers strewn across the countertops 
Masquerade as Cleopatra’s golden pins 
You were known to be as equally sadistic 
Though my sources are as equally apocryphal 
As the Pushkin of the civil servant—
Vestiges of memory 

Do you think I’d care to hear a happy birthday?

I remember all the presents that you gave me 
Captured in a suprasensual encounter
Dreaming up involuntary pleasure 
When you claimed you couldn’t stop  

Maybe then I’d care for Happy New Year?

Through my presence 
Blasphemy becomes a swan song 
Over wet black snow 

Here you leave me standing 
On the outskirts of the dance floor 
Jealous over all the girls 
Swaying to a foxtrot or a swing 
Trumpets overshadowing guitars

The ballroom understands me
Yet replete with anise-tinted guilt-trips
And a score of New Year’s wishes 
I understand degeneracy’s appeal
Removed from our societal ambitions

Lovelorn in the face of stolen
Incantations cast over a wine glass 
Brimming with a colorless champagne 
I become deceptively entranced 
And in my indecision you are fed 

If Botticelli, Titian and Bronzino painted Venuses 
Voluptuously fondling their breasts 
Then where is the vulgarity 
When Manet makes Olympia;
You understand how,
Apprehended through the male gaze, 
Woman is subjectively refuted 
Held to double measures 
Like my double vision of Van Gogh 
When I was drunk on absinthe 
From the drink that Hemingway created 
On a rented bike in Amsterdam 

The more that I am taken
The more I am convinced 
That this might be reality 

So would you ever marry me?

But if reality is made of snowflakes, 
Kisses, arias and contusions 
Wouldn’t you ignite our conversations  
More than twice a year 
Wouldn’tcha wanna see me more than 
Once in every two? 
Wouldn’t you make an effort to? 

Igniting these sore candle wicks 
Duped into partaking in your sensual crusade 
I become Arachne, Gretchen, Sleeping Beauty
Carved into relentless reproduction 
By the men who tell my story
Spinning at the wheel 

Snow is littered on the pool deck
Yet amongst your mental roommates 
And insufferable liberal friends
Hidden in your kitchen 
Eating Russian dumplings until 2 a.m.
You were once my bivouac from freezing

These blueprints—
Designing the way back to you—
They are futile and anachronous 
You have no designs to steal me 
I am only there for comfort
When you’re down and I’m alone 

You might be the golden calf 
Of standing to the side aloof 
Praying in irreplicable pleasures

Yet would you take a plane to New York City? 

My interactions with the world 
Become stymied from the memory of you

And I always think—
From your sparsely-populated cupcake tray 
And armed battalions of pretty words— 
That there is more to you than negligence 

Yet seldom do you think to keep me

 Of course you won’t remember me
Of course you’re not my friend

But could I stay with you in San Francisco? 

If you would think to ask me how I am—