The Literary Review
The Perceiver
Trees rise from earth in feminine form
as the sun emerges from its nightly grave.
On the ridgeline rabbits frolic in the dew
that chills their paws to the delicate bone.
The breeze sings through the meadow
where foxes tear their prey to bloody bits.
The low, white clouds mirror lakes
where water snakes’ shed skin decays.
Yard birds flock on the ground and await
the whims of human greed for beauty.
The window outlines a human form
that setting suns pull closer to the earth.
- George Guida
Yves Montand
You are like a young one, she said,
With belle accent frauduLEUX
A young French boy
surfing our amber waves
A young French boy
waving from the pampas,
from a bull’s sight line
from the wrong side of the fence,
of the pond, of a language.
So difficult, she understood, to be
on the wrong end of an accent
thrown up like a faux wall,
if we may borrow that word.
Mais oui, ignore us, if you please.
This is what we do. So we do
with your kind permission.
We play our greatest roles,
wearing comfortable capes.
With the young French boy,
now a man, we pulled capers
we concocted in the streets
of Sevilla, rehearsing them
as though we’d known
the secrets of performing
someone else’s life.
- George Guida
Trust Issues
A friend you don’t know calls
to tell you she’s married a man
who could be her son, then admits
she has a son she’s never met
by another friend who last week
sent a message to let you know
he’s been in and out of rehab
for as long as you’ve known him
and to give you that advice
you trusted only him to give
about how to question your lover
about her intentions, without her
suspecting you of trust issues
that you most certainly have
but have tried so hard to keep
from intruding on the truth
of the fantasy life you’re
trying so hard to create.
- George Guida
Steal Your Face
That face. Those words.
Those words. Dead girl.
I’m still spinning. She is
wherever, wherever
words are. She dwells
in sprouts and tokes.
She has survived
what came between
sets and us and years.
She was dreaming
something else besides
her father’s hidden stash,
her mother’s bad trip
on a rock ledge. Their skulls
don’t smile, but their hats
are hers. I loved her
hair and grooves,
miracle tickets and print
flowing skirts and how
she didn’t quote songs.
That means not fade away.
Oh, her dark brown curls,
bright smile, stardust
freckles and forearm down,
embraces from hours
of silence and need.
I love you, she said that time,
spinning solo in the light,
Her lyrics. Set list. Dead girl.
- George Guida