The Man Who Could

Shed His Skin

He, for reasons of anonymity,

must remain a fiction.

A mermaid once 

got hold of him

by the wrist,

pulling him down 

to the depths

as he gasped 

for breath.

In order to escape 

he managed to 

change himself into water,

slipping through fingers

with the mutability

of an acorn 

on its way

to an oak. 

From then on,

for him,

to love or be loved

was a brush with death.

He turned up in Sausalito 

with a new name 

and a cobbled backstory.

For all anyone knew

 he’d washed up on the shore

beneath the Golden Gate bridge

uncertain of how else

to begin another life

as every name 

and job he took

was a cover.

Seven names

in forty years 

because he couldn’t stay

put when he became 

too involved. 

Why did he always leave

something behind

for someone who might

care to trace his steps

and find his typewriter

buried in the desert outside Vegas,

a sweater he’d seen on a movie star

abandoned on the backseat of a bus, 

a cell phone hurled into the Hudson,

a plate of food half eaten,

the fork and spoon missing?

Even though like anybody else

he needed to be cared about,

he’d come to believe

there was no way to stay

without changing.

After two years in Los Angeles 

he bought a motor bike

and rode up the coast to Bodega Bay

where Hitchcock filmed The Birds.

He took polaroids of the school house

where Tippi sat on a bench

 in front of the monkey bars,

dark birds casually amassing.

Later he would draw the birds in

on the photos with a black magic marker 

invigorated to feel a part 

of an apocalypse.

Nature understood him,

but no one else could.

Next time he was sure 

to cover his tracks.

Perhaps by taking a job 

in public service

his heart might serve

something other than itself.

That way he could easily

be lost in the fray;

anonymity as a 

survival tactic.

You barely noticed him as he 

passed you on the promenade

in faded jeans and hay-colored hair

swigging on a diet soda

as if he’d other plans despite

your obvious mutual attraction. 

He had to be somewhere

or you’d have shared 

a lifetime together.

One time he made the mistake 

of sheltering a stray dog

which culminated in being

waylaid for 15 years

because in an animal

it became possible

to care for himself.

Still, his mind couldn’t let go

of the notion that puppies

were born adorable merely

to assure survival,

and so 

on it’s death, 

he left.

More and more it was crucial

to make good use of oneself.

It’s no wonder 

he wound up in New York City.

He loved nothing

more than to dance

but avoided the clubs 

for fear of where dancing 

might lead.

When he danced 

it became clear 

every person is 

indistinguishable

from the vibration 

that creates all things. 

His goal was innocence,

no matter how many lives 

he would lead

or how many people 

might possess him. 

He’d begun to ask himself, 

how other than by pain

could God gain his attention?

Now he will need to be vulnerable.

He is older and as life dictates,

less shall want him.

Peter Valentyne

April 12th, 2021