Visitation

He arrives anonymously;

an affable, unruly

 crowd of a man

bearing gifts tucked

on a humid summer day

in the inner regions

of a reindeer blazoned 

Xmas bag.

You feel five again

when he thrusts

towards you

a book artfully wrapped

in a scribbled paper drawing

done in black magic marker.

You may even feel 

as touched as he is

in the company of

this off-season

bi-polar Santa.

It isn’t long before

he reaches for Greek myths

with apparent authority,

then waxing werewolves

 ten minutes in, 

until one of him

comes forward to confess

his father disfigured him

as a child, but because incest

is as ancient as canabalism,

who is to say what is natural

and what is not?

To expand on Oedipus he will posit

that when a child is encouraged

to suckle his mother’s milk,

why then is that same child

scolded for behaving wildly?

Due to his multiple personality

 his demeanor will make you feel

you are alone in a crowd.

His talents are numerous

 and breathtaking.

Here, after all, is life unfettered

by artificial constriction.

His presence will likely stimulate

hundreds of ideas

which then will circle you

like a variety

 of ravenous 

animals.

In the bag he

brings his art.

But this is no

show and tell from hell,

though you may find

it a heaven

too brilliant to take in.

But try.

It’s best to allow

 his confused clarity

to reduce you to a twin idiocy.

He is magnificent

in his rapt repugnance

to what he considers

a culture of compromise.

Why aren’t you yourself

and how could you

have abandoned him?

Instead, he thanks you

for being kind

(if you are)

and insists you tell him if

anything he says is

too much for you.

He’s gentle that way.

It will become abundantly clear

that he brings his childhood

into every room.

If he proceeds to show you

a drawing he did of a cat

with a leering grin,

contemplate it’s countenance.

There’s truth in it.

It’s possible you may

 understand a cat

for the very first time.

If he says

 “I can’t be with cats.”

It is because he knows

they know

they can make him do

whatever they want.

Also in the bag

are b&w photos of where he’s lived

for many many years

before home became

an ark for artifacts

closing in on an already high ceiling.

There are even pictures

showing him dancing

in a coat of many colors;

if only we could insist

on being as true to ourselves.

This eternal glimpse,

has made it’s way to you

seductively through time

like an amorous angel

with no other reason

for doing so

than to remind.

He lives in a museum

of his making,

not a hoarder, but a curator

without enough space

for his curation.

In his world

even dehydrated magic markers

cannot be tossed

without ample hesitation.

In every way

he is simply much too much.

You may think you’re dreaming him.

Your end of the conversation

falls on perfectly attuned ears

like hollow words

failing to enter edgewise.

He is too interesting

for your own thoughts to matter.

Try saying something

that has never occurred to you before.

Something like:

“Have you ever meditated on a mandala?”

thinking that perhaps an infusion of symmetry

will harmonize him.

Did I mention how mirthful

he is as he insists on his rights

even when none are being threatened?

Now look at him, just for a second.

Forget your separateness.

You are him.

In this moment

you can feel his beauty.

And then,

his last words to you are:

“I am that I am.”

  

Peter Valentyne

February 2016