Quantum

Physiques

“Quantum Physics

allows for particles to be

in two states at the same time.”

I’ve never used 

the word quantum

in a sentence before,

but that didn’t stop it

from sprouting

fully formed,

regurgitated from

the quixotic frontier

of another 

night’s dream

like some rare

amphibious noun

washed up 

on the shore

of my bed.

Can you blame me

for wondering

where and why

this word had 

arrived?

Then again,

you may have

already gathered,

I’m an indefatigable

edge comber.

If sleep is

the land of aftermath

and repercussions,

the place where 

all things conspire

to assimilate,

then you’re

sure to find me

sitting at the foot

of my bed

imagining

my soul 

to be

the ghost

beneath 

the sheet.

Night is custodian,

coerced by

none other than

the chalk moon

 to wipe clean

another day’s slate

of uncatagorical 

ephemera;

seeing as

these artifacts are

the unfinished

business of

selfhood.

Like Dali,

I lift up

the edge of

the sea

to peer

at the stars.

Being that

we are not

our sole source

of volition,

you need only

consider 

the winds,

the currents,

the tides,

and

dreams…

crepuscular,

appearing

and disappearing,

strengthening

and atrophying

through a recurrence

of infinite forgetting.

If it’s evidence

you want,

then just look

how night emerges

undeterred

 from the confines

of the body’s 

compass

so that

when we wake

we might remember

the beauty

beneath

the waves.

Peter Valentyne

11/5/20

Gifts from the God 

of Nervous Breakdowns

Exhaustion that brings on 

a spiritual resignation

from unessential things.

You find clarity amidst chaos.

Resignation brought on by

the realization that you will never

know why anyone does anything.

You live free of judgment.

The realization that someone you 

care for is fast asleep and that

waking them is not an option.

You develop quiet compassion.

The notion that nothing good

can come of your desire for escape

so prison is what you will make of it.

You value sanctuary.

Realizing we live in a culture that

encourages vanity and selfishness

then leads to your dropping out.

You are humbled.

An unexpected repugnance to

a second glass of red wine

dispelling a belief in further climbs.

You drink less.

The illogical hunch that three is no

greater than two and that one 

was always more than enough.

You become economical.

The “turn on” that accompanies 

turning everything off and facing

your naked self in silence.

You harbor no secrets.

The compulsion to paint words on stones

and leave them anonymously in the paths

of those that are sad and lonely.

You relate with the angels.

The premonition that a houseplant is God’s

way of granting green wishes, but that

God is repulsed by being thought a Genie.

Your prayers are no longer wishes.

The feeling that a rainy day means less

to live up to and you find yourself

oddly mesmerized by an encroaching storm. 

You know weather is earth’s emotions.

The sudden temptation to collapse

in a place you’ve never lived

a moment of daily practicality.

You leave no stone unturned to feel new.

Peter Valentyne

October 27th, 2020

 

Self-Inflicted

If I embody

what I love

so that there is 

no need

to look elsewhere,

and every chance 

I get I

give that love 

away,

I will be saved.

For the rest, 

I pray they find

a mystery school

for the self-inflicted,

burdened by

they know 

not what.

A greater faith

in the literal?

For myself,

I am more

than

brick and mortar

in a time of

astronomical

rents.

In this year

of plague,

the days age 

like lilies

in a vase,

by week's end

the water

reeks of rot.

Yet, I have 

memorized

their beauty.

Its possible I’ve

run out of need

for a master.

If one

were to appear,

I would know him

by a signifier:

he always takes

the shape 

of you.

Clearly

my understanding 

has ripened like

sun upon wheat

as I see you

a foot soldier

in the field

softly

humming the song

that holds

our lives

together.

Yours is

a lesson 

in un-learning

and

I, to my 

dismay fear I’ve

outgrown myself.

Still, my own nature,

abhorring a vacuum

does not mistake

the body

for a 

set of clothes.

No, I can lay

myself aside 

because you teach 

a radiance

that cannot be worn.

Instead of clutching

at these rags

I shed them 

willingly, 

disarmed

by your

smallest 

kindness.

I let them fall

to the ground,

little more than

a dog-eared 

penny dreadful,

a tattered tear-jerker,

 a dis-owned crutch;

first and last sign of a 

sacred wound.

Asleep I am

merely

a flaccid flesh-

colored slicker.

Then be awake,

where nothing 

can be owned,

nor do we need 

to struggle

for any territory.

Fatigued at last

from hoarding goods,

I’ll float free

knowing

nature's mirror 

is nothing

less than

a holy

water.

Peter Valentyne

October 23, 2020

 

Night Tide

“If you can believe anything, why 

not believe this will last? I’m here 

to tell you whatever you build will

be ruined, so make it beautiful.”

                            ~Hala Alyan

Mornings are a ruin;

signs of a struggle

in cloth sand.

On my arm

a mysterious bruise

the shape of a cloud

in an anatomical sky.

This is how my body 

resolves its emotions,

one wound at a 

time.

At night, my soul,

making what it needs

from scratch, ripens. 

Or is my mind simply

making me happen?

Or maybe my heart.

Either way, 

why shouldn’t

this process be 

holy?

I live another night.

No more naming a dream.

I disown the word dream.

Like the word God,

It begs for renewal.

This is how I see a poem;

a prayer to see 

the evidence

anew.

It comes down to this:

to take responsibility

for how to live

with what I know

and don’t know,

for what came 

and what comes

as another night tide

 strews

cold coals beneath

my feet. 

I walk along the edge

of night and day

sifting for signs

of my surrogate’s

survival.

With barely a veil

between 

not seeing things

as they are, but

merely as I am,

I ask to keep a 

sorrow

born from waking

when I leave.

After all, its all

I have for proof

having known

so much 

joy.

Peter Valentyne

October 15th, 2020

 

The Man Who Turned 

Himself into a Chair

What’s to be done

when a man

you thought you 

knew well

turns himself

into a chair?

Seriously.

A chair 

as colorless

and flavorless 

and tepid as

a Dixie cup

of stale

tap water.

For that matter

what if a man

turns himself 

into a cup 

and places himself

on the shelf

upside down,

for no 

better reason

than to hold nothing

at the expense of

everything.

One could argue

that a chair has its uses

and everything 

has its place,

however that doesn't

explain why I keep

rearranging my furniture

for no other reason

than to see 

the same old

things anew.

Do inanimate objects

matter enough

to sacrifice our souls

to maintain

a sense of order?

Then, God give me

a delicate chaos

I can 

navigate

with my

heart.

Sometimes I feel

the need to sit

or lie down in 

a part of a room

I’ve never sat or lied

down in before

just to escape

the stranglehold

of an everyday

addiction

that offers 

no further

high.

Have I

now become

a cornered animal

petrified of taking 

the world for granted

for fear of

breeding contempt

for both

myself and others?

Like or unlike 

the chair

I trace and retrace

my steps

day in and day out,

as desperate

for assurance 

that I not become 

a creature of habit,

that in fact

the smallest repetition

of my most

 insignificant act

not atrophy into

rigor mortis

whereby

he that sits

and he that 

is seated

no longer 

qualify for

a deity. 

Peter Valentyne

October 13th, 2020