Cinema, Cinema

Comedy is dangled,
A rare delicacy, when well done,
at the hungry mouth,
Of my humor;
Quirks, habits,
Small joys that crinkle eyes,
And the horrific truths that unravel faces,
Pull lose, the knots of my brow.

Childhoods, in flashbacks,
and the mothers,
that made these characters,
Make appearances often
In sessions with therapists,
As they lie on a couch, defenseless,
While I sit up, suddenly interested,
In this undeniable common ground.

The fiddle of a violin,
Ocassionally takes, a tricky, long drag
At the strings of my heart,
Only to be hooked, painfully,
On a throbbing vessel,
Mid-note.

Odd angles, fixated on
Jutting temples and relentless jaws,
Tears, wrinkles,
A single unsaid word, hangs uncertain
In the excruciating silence of my rapt regard,
Seizing and freeing my imagination,
all at the same time,

Orgasmic peals of abandon,
Rush, like blood, to my cheeks,
Failed experiments with love and sex,
All tumble out and take shape,
right here, in my living room,
In a palpable silver haze,
That falls on my face like a spotlight,
Bringing me their stories,
And somewhere in them,
My own.

It is then
that I am no longer looking at a screen,
But at the most spellbinding
Mirror of sorts.