The Sirens 

“A life of patient suffering… is a better poem in itself than we can any of us write. It is only through the gates of suffering, either mental or physical, that we can pass into that tender sympathy with the griefs of all of mankind which it ought to be the ideal of every soul to attain."   ~Anne Reeve Aldrich

The sirens insist on their anonymous wailing.

The sirens scatter the pigeons with fearful urgency.

The sirens swarm around my calves like nipping minnows.

The sirens force their kiss upon me like an explosion in my ear.

The sirens invade this dark room and spoil my photographs with their light.

The sirens erase the chalkboard with their spastic waving.

The sirens rake my life over their coals.

The smell of sirens even prickles my nose.

The sirens turn our rooms red with their hysterical screaming.

The sirens abduct my twin, whisking him away to conduct their own experiments.

The sirens have painted lips and leave their prints on the rim of every glass.

The sirens worry me like a string of sandalwood beads.

The sirens tear me away from my cherished reveries.

The sirens scratch my mirror with the nails of their longing.

The sirens arrest my thoughts by way of their calling.

The sirens poison my drink with their noisy mission.

The sirens register earthquakes through sheer osmosis.

The sirens play footsie with our sexiest memories.

The sirens post their x-rays like postcards amid the clouds.

The sirens part the waters of my harshest nightmares.

The sirens bang on the ceiling with their anxious broom.

The sirens chase their own tails like snakes on a caduceus.

The sirens bring their boxing gloves into every rope enclosed ring.

The sirens spoil my appetite with their insatiable hunger.

The sirens hear me practicing but have never met the real me.

The sirens sting my eyes with their own crying.

The sirens stop me on their spiral staircase to ask me my name.

The sirens cry their eyes out in the wake of my disappearance.

The sirens frighten my cat into licking its belly.

The sirens abandon the body for more rampant emotions.

The sirens permeate the everyday with anonymous wailing.

 

I look down

for where the sound

is coming from.

I sense

them snaking

through the city,

a game of

Chutes & Ladders,

unsure if they’re coming

or going as they

wind their way

toward the sick and dying,

or criminals

disturbing the peace

as the sirens

wound the air

with this

apocalyptic hymn.

 

At the window

I see my neighbor

from above

with his pain

as plain

as a smile on

a happier man’s face.

Really,

even 7 stories up

I feel his story.

 

Losing his wife

of 40 years

suddenly,

his suffering

has begun to grow

more beautiful

than any rose

despite being

made of so many

thorns.

 

As the sirens song weakens,

their art sharpens,

becoming fastidious,

exquisite, costly, delicate,

sensitive to

those who are

in need,

and though

not all will survive

their presence

or their dirge

I will continue

to think

of them

as a savior.

 

8/16/22

 

 

Separation

 

“We had a kettle, we let it leak.

Our not repairing it made it worse.

We haven’t had any tea for a week.

The bottom is out of the universe!”

                      Rudyard Kipling “Natural Theology”

 

Every night, I close my eyes,

fall asleep and go mad.

I meet people who are dead

and encounter people who

never existed and wind up

in places where I have

never been and never will be.

 

Mornings are for mourning

the memory of the other

as I wake up in hospital,

a formerly conjoined twin

with my drugs wearing off.

I know I need to start over

in this less than quaint

small town of my life.

 

I miss the other one

even as he’s gazing back,

our faces a mockery

of discomforting recognition.

Once joined at the head

we now have

our own thoughts

as separate as

a butterfly from

a cocoon.

  

8/11/22

 

 

 

 

Unembroidered

 

I get to die at the end.

That’s reason enough to

perform this play;

the play itself,

a crucible on which

I learn to change my life.

Who wouldn’t want

a play to die in?

 

I leave traces of myself

on everyday objects

in hopes the mystery

will eventually be solved.

Prints on a plate,

saliva on a rim,

residue on a bowl

of a spoon.

All roads lead to

a change in how

I will continue

to exist.

 

I never finish my plate

for that same reason

so that non-existent biographers

can ascertain what

touched my heart

through the soul

of my mouth.

 

I once buried a Smith Corona

in the desert only to

dream of words

like ants

pouring out of a hole

to devour me.

I must eat

myself in order

to stay alive.

No, in order

to stay awake.

 

I have always needed

something to lament;

a solitary longing

for a second

pair of eyes

so that I 

appear as

what I see.

 

But at this point

none of this

means anything

to anyone

but me.

Every walk I take

in the woods

I am still walking

with no edge

to exit from.

 

Thieves stole

an ancient copper relic

said to contain

the blood of Jesus,

then it turned up 

in a slum

coveted by

careless children.

I am that cup.

 

Being malformed keeps

my feelings in check.

All I need is to

worship this moment.

I am kind to everyone

I meet.

I am beneath everyone

and everything

therefore

all things flow

down toward me.

I keep so little.

 

My eyes take in your scent.

My mouth hears your voice.

My nose remembers 

everything I have

loved.

 

8/11/22

 

 

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