Three Poems

by Lance Mazmanian


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​North Poinsettia Place

The room, rain of velvet.

No.

We chat. Spiral of midnight,
both aware that kilometers and townships
lie between.

Yes.

Black crown traps her danger
and travel

— but something hollow, as well:

Like a home with owners abroad,

vast and gorgeous,
and yet 

in vacuum.

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Garðarshólmi

The shriek! 

...waves of lilac 
from the mirror. 


A shock of raven hair 
and icy red 

of lips. 


Seas 
of lonely dusk 

— and the wind 
is luminous pain 
in bloom. 

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Her cries speak gold 
and rainbows. 

But I know her not. 

And likely never will. 


And yet, the love: 

like a warm and solitary scone,

or a bit of incense 
through a window 

at night.


Corner of Sunset & Cahuenga

1. Great black wall with chrome and quantum enigma. Dire gash on the lungs,
        made from passage of unknown star and its trailing wake of 
               twilight eyes, plain-swept hair. 

2. Bite of grey rainbow and horizon crippled with candy sprinkles,
        cirrus cloud, and slivered moon.
                Trapping need and wonder and...

3. ...a sort of irrational midwinter's bane.
        Not more or less or between, you see.
               And yet, I think not.

4. Indeed, until fabric of shadow is cut and worn (for a time)...yes until then,
         there will be no light no dark in the garden. And no cautious warning,
         or clock,
         or date,
         or foreground click
                of Chanel heels on the sidewalk.


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Lance Mazmanian has been part of various entertainment and arts since Dr. Smith damned near burned down the Jupiter 2.