Charles Borkhuis


REARVIEW MIRROR


 
time to face up to the big slow-down 
in the rearview mirror
you were caught with your pants down
playing hopscotch with the boss’ squeeze
now the motor’s running in your dreams
you can squeal that wasn’t the real you
but they hold the last card
and it’s a joker full of holes 

let us discuss forbidden love 
the twinkle in the eye of an underworld flame
time to replay beauty’s little two-step 
through the garden of earthly delights
breasts growing on trees fingerprints 
on wet thighs that signal a moving violation
the past suddenly accelerates 
as it withdraws between your legs
but your eyes are captured  
in the mirror’s intimate embrace

someone was always watching 
from a not-too-distant shore
you owe more than you know
the players may have disappeared
but your face remains in the rearview mirror
the back seat is the size of a small coffin 
your double squeezes into the fetal position  
it’s a bumpy ride from here to nowhere
 
strangers’ lives come and go through the windshield 
a woman’s tight red skirt 
a man in the rain rushing out of focus 
catch you thinking of your future on this planet 
the vehicle wanders across the broken yellow line
where do you hide your body 
when the car stops

 
the present can’t hold you
in its arms for long
time overtakes the moment
soon you’ll be invited to step out of the vehicle 

perhaps you’ll pick wildflowers near a stream 
give them to your first girlfriend 
whose face you can’t bring back
where does love go when it’s gone
do we ever get past the ghosts 
of each other inside our head 

but it’s too late for all that
you’ve been taken for a ride
through a shadow world of intimacy and distance
memory’s little sideshow  
catches you clinging to your attachments
stolen love on a secluded beach
played through the eye of an unseen camera 
 
you remain uncertain to the end 
why this turn in the road 
where does the big nothing take us
and why is the thug next to you smiling 
while you watch your life 
rewind in the rearview mirror



UNDERSTUDY



skies flutter eyeing the afterglow 
at the missing heart of the matter 
inscrutable scribbler 
lollygagging at the end of a sentence
perhaps it’s not necessary to conjure up 
another character to speak for you 
to do what you would never do

perhaps it’s not necessary to go out on a limb
watch the branch break one more time
and fall back into a forest of ghost letters
don’t worry I’ve memorized all your lines
it’s not necessary to go on tonight

the somnambulist on a high wire
looks over the crowd 
rolls a bit of sand between his hands 
and grips the pole 
the taste of sea spray
years away from his next step



			~



memory of the dog’s teeth clinging
to a hard black rubber ball  
coming closer till it eclipses the sun 
and becomes a stain on the eye 
a floater hanging in space
pull the ball from his jaws and throw it 
back into the waves

nothing is forever whichever 
way you look at it 
there’s no end to not knowing
it’s written in the subatomic fine print
the contract you signed with the living
begin again with a few words 
stolen from the embers 




			~



hello this is your personality talking 
your own microwave background static 
take this voice and grow a new arm or leg
perhaps you think I’m just a figure of speech
but all these years we’ve been walking around 
with the same head
transplant it in another city 
and it still comes up heads  

or tails all those multiples 
won’t do you any good
they might roll their eyes and laugh
play the jealous lover private eye or fool 
but in a pinch someone has to represent you
and ready or not 
I’ll have to do



FACE THE MUSIC AND DANCE



I wonder if I might borrow your face for a while 
I mean the one you’re not using at the moment
you know the witty life-of-the party type 
or maybe the sensitive good listener 
who goes the extra mile because he cares
or the strong silent frankie knuckles type 
who puts the lean on poets that don’t pay up

or maybe I won’t go out today 
maybe I won’t face the dissonant atonal 
music of the street and its loyal discontents 
of which I am one 

besides to step out the door requires 
a frontal lobotomy of sorts 
your multiples must collapse into a false unity 
that drives the apparatus 
which forces us to make sense 
of a world that withdraws every time 
we treat it like a tool 
 
face it talking to yourself in public 
may result in hostile stares 
and forced removal from the premises 
but wouldn’t it be interesting to be in a room 
with others whose inner voices talked to each other
and everyone dropped the sham 
that you are only you
and that this projected world is all there is

Charles Borkhuis is a poet, playwright, and essayist born and raised in NYC and currently living in San Diego. His 11 books of poetry include: Rearview Mirror, Spontaneous Combustion, Dead Ringer and Finely Tuned Static. He is the winner of the 2021 James Tate International Prize for Poetry and was a finalist for the W.C. Williams Book Award. His poems will be included in the 2022 anthology Contemporary Surrealist and Magical Realist Poetry. His 2-act play Blue Period will be produced at Onstage Playhouse in San Diego on July 15 - August 7, 2022.

 
 

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