ingredient panel

A lot of these poems are partly inspired - yes
I know, you know that, don't interrupt, please
- by one real person

in every poem, and sometimes,
none. And many of them repeat, with some
frequency, like series regulars
who never meet, who never appear
together onscreen - except

that no matter whose turn it is,
the others creep in. Or sometimes
do. They may; they've been given
permission to, under strict
supervision with firm, stern glance!
Wherever it serves the purpose planned
or keenly observed, made up as we go.
So maybe they do. They sometimes don't,
too, although - who'd know? If they do
their part? As needs must demand,
Fate is brought in
to help Destiny's hand
absently smooth her pants
while Lady Luck stands in the wings,
surreptitiously flapping them
with a certain art. The play's the thing,
quoth the Bard - who knew what he meant
by that, having written so many of his own
and despite what you may have heard
or sown. (You Know Who You Are) but
where was I? Oh yes.

The poem.

A central viewpoint, a character
who whoever she is or he, has been
subjected to diabolical surgery, not
always - but there's a tendency. Situations
or aspects of character merge, because
of the point of the piece

this time, whatever it is, it needs

a twist, a shifted perspective

to correct the line,
to blend into the singular view intended,
and say everything from the heart, from a place

I've never been. This particular heart,
anyways. We need some help to get in!
And as stage manager and magician's slave
to my own cruel stagemastery, I need some props.
Motivations and things, so it all rings true.

Why wouldn't it though? If it does,
wouldn't you? How can anyone know?
If it does, then hey! Everyone wins

a snake. Plush, stuffed and fake,
from a carnival stand where you throw
tin rings at a popsicle stick, while
someone's still sucking on it. Who is
that masked man? Or is it a girl
in a masked-man mask? Even if
it's not you, don't tell
in case sometimes it is. You

know, you're a person, not a cheap gimmick to trick
up a poem over, but hey, I'm aware so
very well. Where conscience intrudes, imagination

excuses itself - and rightly so. Somebody has to.

Oh, no. I'm totally lost! I forget whether
and what I have tried to explain. Honestly,

it's been so long since my stalker
stopped stalking me, I forget
I was never the one to get obsessed.

Extra explanations are extra suspicious!
Yet truth is so easy, and pleasant to say.

To recap, I make much of this shit
up out of whole cloth of high thread count
and good quality, and now the rhyme scheme,
too has gone out the window. How long

has it been since I started this poem?

What the heck did I say all the way
up there? Are you even still reading?

For enjoyment, I hope? If not, come on,
just a little bit further. We're almost done,
and your patience
- I promise you this -
will be rewarding.
Thank you, oh
so very much, with whipped
cream and a cherry on top,
to believe in.