mouse grass*

I woke up this morning,
stumbled into the mirror,
noticed that while I slept
someone had stole my beard.

the fiend clipped off my mustache,
weed-wacked my goatee,
left me with an empty face
and a soul patch.

how nice: a soul patch.
parsed out: a patch
for my naked, hairless soul;
a sarcastic bandaid.

or, perhaps, a patch,
like in a patchwork quilt,
a key piece, or ingredient
in the restoration of a soul.

a soul stripped bare by rules
and admonitions:
that a tiny little mustache,
like Hitler, was ok.

but, below the lip, just south
of the twisted smile,
evil lived and festered
corrupting the souls of men.

as if the hair of the face
could have any bearing
on the content of the soul!
eyes are mirrors, not beards.

beards are tangled tendrils,
fibers and split ends of thought
hanging reflectively from chins and lips
suggestive of nothing: ponderous.

waiting simply to be stroked or combed;
waiting to yield the detritus harbored there;
given up only after careful trimming
and loving application of the scythe.

all the sage, wise ones wore beards.
the longer to stroke – the deeper their safe
of their knowledge and thought.
how ludicrous would they be, clean?

shavin’ is a ritual, undertaken with care.
my mustache is more than a fashion accessory
beneath my angry eyes;
it is a prize, hoarded with care

against the thoughtless fools who would give leave
to grow a bit of twirly mischievousness
against the tide of full on evil
beneath the teeth, pure and sparkly white.

but then, as I blink away the bleariness,
I remember that I cut away my metaphor
and swept up the bits and pieces
in an effort to break free of foolish chains.

*mouse grass, or more properly, maus gras, is a pidgin phrase from Papua New Guinea meaning facial hair