Joseph Buehler, “Masks

Masks

Joseph Buehler

O.k. Gladys, if you would just relax you would find that the procedure is quite harmless, in and of itself, unless, of course, we might run into complications, which are quite common in the European countries, but here, of course, in the good old United States, they are rarely of much concern, especially since our equipment is so up to date—we haven’t lost anyone in quite a while—with the possible exception of Ecuadorians. It seems that, for some unknown reason, they are susceptible to this type of—ah— procedure while under the knife, so to speak, and we seem to lose a goodly percentage of them. So, since you obviously have none of their particular characteristics, there is very little danger to speak of.

So if you will just lie back and breathe deeply into the rubber cone—that’s the ticket—we can get started with the operation. It shouldn’t take more than four or five hours at the most. Good! She’s out. Janice, will you hand me the scalpel—no!—not that one you fool!—the big extra sharp one. And put on your mask! I’m the only one around here who doesn’t require a mask! Chip, do you have the saw ready? Well, go get a clean one! Do you think we have all night? And put your mask on! How many times do I have to tell you people anyway? Put your mask on! That’s the ticket!

Face-scape

Syed Zaman

Your face still beams Through those black, bare, barren branches— Freely flaring, waking me, still, From a dream within dreams— Whose roots dig deep, in those dares to desire, Tender textures of time— When I knew nothing about love— But of you, love—you as mine— How the tip of your tongue had touched the Rosary of tears on my weeping face, And when the wind would blow in from the balcony, As you would hold my gentle gaze. Remnants of monsoon, puddles of residual rain— Through the weight of the bed sheets, the flailing Folds of the curtains, through those thin walls would Enter—whispers—of predictable pain— How we’ve collected and gathered these fragments Of our then universe, how we’ve arranged them, Without any particular order— Only to rearrange— Only to realize, for once, that for something to Remain the same—some things—do shift— While others—tend to change.

Emerald Eyes

Syed Zaman

My gaze would follow the fallen Lines of your spine— Those intricately woven waves of Musical planets perfectly aligned— As lyrically abstract as Rothko’s— Black on Maroon— A costumed heart whose mocking Wounds—bruised blue by the moon.

I would listen to the silence in your Long languid breaths— Threatened by Ravages of time dancing life into death— A noiseless palace of perforated Photographs and painterly wars That was where I had heard your heart— The emblems of emerald and clear quartz.

Our eyes had met there, maybe, once or twice— Between wistful whispers, and a few painful lies.

Paused Daydream

Syed Zaman

I’m breathing... Beneath the feathers of your lashes— Amid twilight tunes and piano keys. You’re improvising impressionistic movements— Oh how those melancholic fingers—how they Peel poetry off of the flesh of hope. In a sea of souls— I can hear the sound of the ocean... I have...echo endlessly— A thousand times. But darling, why— Why have you closed your eyes?