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
