Monday, December 30, 2013

Thelma T. Reyna
Janus, The Gateway God
You two-faced son of a gun, never in or out but
in-between, always in the path, in
doorways, portals, gates, wishy-washy wimp
not making up your mind. In or out? Always  in
the way, immobile marble, looking front and back,
like a Mafioso marked for takedown. Wimp.
Anyone can straddle past and present, reliving
pain and glory, sneaking peeks at down the
road, wondering what boulders block our paths,
but staying put, stuck like heels in August asphalt,
like addicts zonked on sofas, trapped like
catatonic drunks who can’t make up their minds.
You two-faced son of a gun, roman god they
say, but guarding doorways is what conspirators
do, their hands on secret knives, fingers on
lips, shushing, shushing, keeping the future under
wraps, not telling, not giving it away, killing us
with secrets. Hypocritic coward. Take a step
back, or lunge forward.  Commit—make a move. Just
get out of the goddam way.

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