#54: A Man's Fandangle Is A Matter Of Angle (POS)

O, You Of Ego, So Unsteady,
Funny, You Act So Non-Confeddy,
You Carry An Image Inside Your Heady,
And Hang That Picture By A Thready . . .
You Can't Look Any Queerer!
. . . Better Steer Clear Of That Whirlpool, Eddy,
Dock, Take Stock, And Get Yourself Ready.
Life Can Be A Little Self-Shreddy
With Any Good Look In The Mirror!

Then Jo-Mima lifted a card,
and read our destination.
"Mirrorland," I heard and thought . . .
"not more self-revelation!?"

The whirring started. The Car took off,
and Jo and I, quite numb
to all the signs of travel, did
not worry what might come.

But this little trip proved scarier yet,
or so the mind submits,
since Concept Cars don't come equipped
with ejection seat crock-pits.

Clothes and cars, good tans, and hair . . .
like flashing Polaroids,
of all the things one dreams to be,
or endeavors to avoid . . .

were slapped against our windowshield,
and some of them got stuck.
Jo and I had to close our eyes
to symbols run amuck.

The Buggy slowed, and from our perch,
a blur of light, surreal,
confused us 'til we fully stopped,
and saw the Ferris Wheel.

The scene was a mandala, twinkling
with colored tiny lights . . .
it reminded me of the Darke County Fair,
on steamy August nights.

We stood and ambled down the hill
to a farmer-packed midway,
both sides of which were lined with booths
of games for us to play.

I didn't know if the Voice was close,
but solicited rebuttal . . .
"Glowing barkers, calling to us . . .
man, if that ain't subtle!"

The Voice had never shown itself
emotionally to buckle,
but I could swear we heard a low,
softly rumbling chuckle.

Walking up, we handed two bits
to a barker with softballs.
Then I wound up and threw at a row
of tiny Bo and Jo dolls.

Our miniature faces alternated
as targets for my pitch.
One, two, three, they dropped . . .
and each without a hitch.

The dolls fell back, exposing cards,
a letter on each one.
Symbol by symbol, we watched the web
of our lives being spun.

I stood the mound 'til "clever" could
be read among the cards.
Then a couple of misses inspired me
to try my hand at darts.

After fifteen minutes, no balloons
were hanging in the joint . . .
and then a guy with furtive eyes
said, "Hey, you made your point."

The latex shards hung, showing where
the characters had spelled
"handsome," though "some hands" is what
I think the barker felt.

I smiled as if dart throwers might
all quickly learn who's boss,
when from the corner of my eye
I saw the game, Ring Toss.

I turned to Jo who paused a bit,
not eager to compete.
"We're magic," I said, "we can't lose.
Those wins were not my fete.

I wasn't long on the sidelines when
Jo's ringers had me bored.
I quickly scanned the midway for
what else it held in store.

And there before us, fifty yards . . .
just past the fishbowl game,
the mirror house's door was lit,
and letters spelled my name.

I was at the door when Jo
walked up, expressing cheer . . .
I guess the rings exposed the words
he wanted to appear.

We stepped on in and didn't halt,
despite the horrid sound
the words of welcome seemed to have . . .
"Come in and look around . . .

As long as you keep throwing stuff,
balls and darts and rings,
the target always has your eye . . .
you might be anything.

Now take some time for reflection . . .
up close, or from afar . . .
and see if views of you confirm
just who you think you are."

Dozens of mirrors in one big room
is all that we could see.
I couldn't believe the number of Bos
now looking back at me.

The first one showed me a sinner,
pretending to be a saint.
The next one showed me a muscle man
who looked a little faint.

One image appeared quite honest, but
one look behind his eyes,
revealed a Bo who sought to hide
the burden of his lies.

Each mirror reflected both of us.
To me, Jo looked the same,
while my reflection always showed
some horrid psychic shame.

It was only Jo-Mima's openness,
advising that his eyes
reflected him in characters that
his worst traits symbolize . . .

that suggested we both suffered the
same subversive plot . . .
reflecting to us what evil we are . . .
or maybe we are not.

Each mirror seemed to stab us with
a vision like a spear,
as both of us stood cringing at
the way we might appear.

It's hard to say how long we stood,
hearts and souls laid bare
by visions of our humanness,
and sins we humans share.

Our fears and insecurities, and,
the shortcuts they inspire
reflected us as dressed out for
the Devil's midnight choir.

We slowly inched our way toward
a door that said, "Repent."
It opened to the fairground smells
of peanuts and old tents.

We heard the calliope organ and bells,
and tried to catch our breath,
now having looked so deep inside
to see our spirits' death.

I asked aloud about the truth . . .
if mirrors or games stood
as a closer picture of ourselves . . .
the evil or the good.

Jo-Mima answered philosophically,
his wisdom at its peak,
"Something tells me neither is
the truth that we might seek . . .

the truly true, and really real . . .
but, we've been witnessing
the various interpretations of
our own pre-possessing.

We weren't the fantastic marksmen
while winning at each game . . .
and neither have we ever earned
all that mirrored shame.

Those measures were all worldly,
adopted or assigned.
They cannot weigh the truth that's in
our hearts and souls and minds.

I think the lesson really here
is truly pretty meek . . .
the world is gonna paint you when
your own brush strokes are weak."

"So, the deal, I guess," I butted in,
"for our self-picture's sake,
is much less what the world shows us,
but shows we choose to make."

"That's right . . . and not that nothing's real,
but our self-syllabus
is a game of winner-take-all that's played
between the world and us.

We need our pictures for us to see
all we are, and ain't . . .
so long as we keep our canvas clean,
and don't forget our paint!"

We walked back through the faceless fair
toward the landing hill.
I don't know a password, but
I felt Jo had it still.

And sure enough, the Buggy revved,
and we both got inside . . .
ending a scary sojourn as
t'was time, again, to ride.