Writer’s Block

 

They arrive

not by mail

but rather

out of thin air,

letters in a foreign tongue

that I cannot read

except for my name

which appears

in salutation

and resurfaces

throughout the body;

the only discernable detail

in an otherwise

indecipherable

script.

 

Letters without words

appearing

as if present

all along, beneath

a stack of papers

or tucked inside

the soft

brick of a book,

giving me the feeling

that without their existence

my life would be

less real.

 

Without these letters

perhaps I would be nothing

more than an actor

acting within

the parameters

of my own play.

 

I can point to anything

anywhere and show you.

Look, here I am

boarding the L train

when I

meant to catch the R

only to wind up

two blocks from the sea,

clutching my name

like a torn-out page

crinkled in my fist.

 

Having tired

of telling myself

the same

old stories

and at the end of

a very long rope

I knew I needed

to begin anew

by accepting

that all that

once was

so readily apparent

could now

only be recalled

with my heart.

 

Why then, am I

surprised to find

the cat’s tail twitching

out the words:

the best people

are afraid

in such a fuzzy

Morse code?

 

My barometer is awe.

Only when I feel unworthy

do I know

I’m in the presence

of greatness.

Rather than take a hammer

to the brick a brac

narrative of

these last days

why not use

this dumbfounded space

to tell a more

impossible story,

 

 

6/15/22

 

 

 

The Stamp

 

Because this body

is my last address,

my soul is

a Forever stamp;

possessed of

an authorial

assurance

for reaching 

any destination

without fear of

expiration.

Therefore, 

any day now

I can decide

to follow

my sorrow

back to its

origin of joy.

04/21/22

 

The Sacred Space

of Every Blank Page

 

“The dignity of a man lies in

his ability to face reality in all

its meaninglessness.”

        ~Martin Esslin

 

The days disperse

like civilians avoiding a draft;

deserters hitting the road

in search of a dream.

Were the days of the week

ever more than

seven convenient lies?

Mondays and Tuesdays

were always gossiping,

making up stories,

telling their whoppers

to Wednesdays.

Fridays always got Saturdays

 hopes up only to have

them dashed upon

the proverbial shores

of a Sunday.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

We filled our days in

with what we bought,

what we said,

what we did;

only to have it all

wash up like debris

on a white sand.

Why not let Sunday be

for clearing the slate?

Just think,

breakfast, lunch, and dinner

could now be served

on spinning plates.

All of us

eating only

when & what

we feel like eating

because now is

the only time there is,

was or ever will be.

 

Every noon will be high

and midnights too.

All of us idle

as sundials at night,

the moon barely

casting shadows

across our faces

absent of names.

 

Don’t panic,

we can still be

tamed by angels

disguised as misfortunes

threatening us

not to stand out,

to go unnoticed

like themselves,

performing their

alchemies

in the dark,

so their miracles

don't go

to our heads.

 

The trees

long annoyed

by our compulsive

categorizing

join hands

beneath the ground,

naked limbs comingling

in anonymity,

pulsating with an implausible

blood, weary of

forming a solo fate

with the audacity

of a single noun.

 

Now

 no one will be

prohibited from loving

because to love anyone

or anything

is to

love another

as much as

we can love ourselves.

 

To those who

shall remain nameless

I offer this:

No matter how many

poems I write

I will never lose sight

of the sacred space

inherent in every

blank page.

 

 

04/09/22

 

Why I Like to Sit on the Floor

and Other Aberrations

Sometimes furniture feels like an affectation;

a chair was never a part of the natural order.

When I sit on the floor I feel more grounded,

less pretentious, more centered, more real.

All things flow downward toward what’s low.

To sit on the floor is like sitting in God’s lap.

I always hold the first sip of wine in my mouth

without swallowing it as if I were trying

to identify a poison, 

except when taking the Eucharist.

A psychic once told me I’d been poisoned

in a past life.

I was also told I’d been beheaded.

Cutting my hair always feels like a suicide attempt.

I often walk with my head cocked to the side

imagining I'm in a b&w film from the forties.

I force a smile every morning the first thing upon waking.

I tell myself nothing bad can happen when you’re smiling.

I like to rearrange my furniture on a weekly basis.

I cannot look in a mirror in public.

I cannot look at pictures of myself.

There are certain songs I will be singing all my life.

Everything I know about human nature

I learned from Cinderella.

Seeing someone vomit makes me vomit.

I have a preternatural fear of mannequins.

Trees can make me cry.

I can’t undress in a room that smells of chlorine.

If I see someone down the street a block ahead of me

I always look away for fear they’ll see me looking at them.

I can’t bear gum in my mouth after its lost its flavor.

I hate hearing the telephone ring.

I like risking my life.

I cry in cars.

I've no idea what it feels like to be a man.

03/31/22

 

A Movie Lover’s Guide to the Stars

 A Triptych

i

The Movies Stay

While We Go Away

 

The movies stay while we must go,

with no intention of explaining away our pain.

 

The movies stay while we depart

for further vehicles of unforeseeable fame.

 

The movies stay as if they were

more real than we are ourselves.

 

The movies stay filled with the dead

in all their youthful beauty and health.

 

The movies stay suffused with

the light of all those magic hours.

 

The movies stay to bear the weight of

affinities that were never merely ours.

 

The movies stay like drawers for keeping

dreams in when we’re gone.

 

The movies stay while we go away

to immortalize what our hearts knew all along.

 

ii

Exteriors

 

A young girl adorns a scarecrow

with the hand-me-downs

of her dead father

securing him to a wooden cross

in the field beyond the house.

She speaks a quiet prayer

into the hay beneath the tweed.

That night, she awakens

to find a man standing

at the foot of her bed

soaking wet from the storm

that’s been battering

 the cornfield outside her window.

For a moment she thinks her father

has returned from the dead.

But when illuminated

 by a sudden flash of lightning

she realizes he is the man

she fashioned from scratch

in hopes she might go on

being loved.

 

 

iii

Memo From the Front Office

 

Of course, you’re being considered at this time

but who’ll direct and who’ll star is still up in the air.

As you know, you’re only as good as your last hit.

No one can rest on their laurels in this business.

Not even you.

However, I know for a fact they have faith in you

and your ability to move an audience to tears

if only with that gorgeous puss of yours!

I’ve always said you just needed a picture

that played to your strengths. Not another

comedy where you have more fun making it

than the audience has watching it!

“Saving the Day” was mired by too many damn re-shoots.

Let’s face it, you can’t afford another stinker.

Audiences want someone they can root for.

Hell, your last picture only made 40 mil

with your name featured prominently over the title.

 

Word has it your mother is being played by

that top notch stage actress Louise Fowler,

who was discovered by the Clifton Agency

while working behind the counter at Saks

selling bras and girdles…can you believe it?

We’re lucky to get Louise as she’s worked

tirelessly for decades for a role like this one.

She’s sure to give it her all.

And, get this, you resemble each other! You’ll see,

she’s going to give you something to play against.

That was the problem with “Into That Good Night”,

Verna Fogel was all wrong as your love interest.

Zero chemistry. You can’t quarrel on the set

 and expect to make a touching love story.

Just hang tight, this is going to propel you

into the firmament!

 

Peter Valentyne

03/16/22

 

 

 

 

                                                                                               Painting by Herman Bask

Every Angel is Terrifying

 

This morning I woke

to find I’d been

kissed by an angel

on the forehead

while I slept.

I knew this because

my brow was

dashed and bloodied.

I searched my mind

for a dream

to explain it

but none existed,

though mornings

often offer up

signs of a struggle.

 

Could the sight of blood

be a red reminder

that death is racing

through our

underground

streams looking

for a way out of itself;

a seedling

making its way

toward the light

determined

to flower?

No rock or root

can inhibit its crawl

through the sediment

of ourselves.

Until of course

busting out

like birds

growing gradually

bored of

their cages.

  

Now I know there is

no need to figure out

what to do next

as the things that

need doing

present themselves

for execution

in their own time.

Has there ever

been a need

to do otherwise?

But I, like

everyone else

tend to take

things into my

own hands

if for no other

reason than

it flatters

the ego to force

things to happen.

 

Was it Rilke

who said,

“Every angel is

terrifying. And yet,

alas I welcome

You.”

Angels are

indeed perilous

as even their kisses

leave a bruise.

Who better to

bewilder us

back to

the proper

gratitude?

 

I wouldn’t have said

this to anyone or

anywhere else

but here

in this place

allotted for

the most beautiful

of all possible

revelations.

 

03/14/22

 

Wooden Parts

 

Are you like me an amputee?

Is all that’s left of you

here with me?

People may see us whole

but there’s an absence;

appendages no longer

in need of bandages.

 

Who sees what’s missing?

I’m not talking of lost limbs

but a vacancy of parts

unknown but no less grim,

draped beneath the fabrics

protected from the dusts;

shrines to gorgeous longings

once mistaken for our lusts.

 

But an absence of sentiment

doesn’t mean we no longer care

when the past can be as shrouded

as a loved yet tattered chair.

If in doubt lift the skirt, you’ll

find there’s nothing there.

True love leaves a stain,

a feeling presence oh so near;

partial memories reflected

in faces no longer here.

If all there was to risk

was only our own thick skin,

better be amongst the invisible

than by sorrow shrouded in.

 

If losing something dear

is merely a matter of ballast.

How much more is lost

to avoid becoming callous?

When age severs things:

people, places, or loves,

whatever are we to do

with what not having does?

 

When there’s more behind

than before us up ahead;

some folks lug their suitcases

even on their way to bed,

and every other room

they enter carrying trunks.

Ones with stickers

full of travels, ones

with initials full of junk.

 

I prefer to keep my losses

out from under wraps,

to let out a rook to look for land

on limbs or wings or flaps.

When what we’ve loved

has gone away we'll find

our way back to the wood

because even amongst

dead branches we'll be

welcomed back for good.

 

 

03/08/22