Never Give a Cat a Woman’s Name

 

My cat and I have agreed not to love each other.

It’s better that way. No really.

The very touch of her fur disturbs my equilibrium,

nothing should feel that soft and abruptly walk away.

 

Eyes that seem to stare through you can hardly be trusted.

There’s no telling what she’s thinking of at any given moment.

She whines about everything yet couldn’t care less what’s troubling me.

She doesn’t consciously overlook my problems, she ignores them.

 

Selfishness is her religion, the hell with all that’s holy.

She probably prays to her water bowl.

She’s above wearing jewelry as she is her own accessory.

She sticks every landing like a gymnast pulling a heist.

 

She licks herself as if her whole body were an open wound.

The look in her eyes says: You did this to me.

I’m frankly tired of putting her on a pedestal

because she always lets me know she couldn’t care less.

 

She has many Gods but apparently, I’m not one of them.

She wakes me every morning with an agitated call to arms.

It was never my intention to join the army.

Bugles are more delicate than her barking orders.

 

So why does my heart melt at the mere thought of her name.

Oh, my darling Clementyne.

 

8/22/22

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clouds As Seen from Beneath the Soul’s Equator

Ever since we sat together

looking up at the sky

describing the clouds

so not to abandon whimsy,

I’ve not stopped looking up.

 

You’re gone now

but not the peace

of those pointless hours

where we put aside

our thoughts

in favor of being.

 

I pointed out an elephant.

You, an umbrella

sheltering a mushroom.

 

Freud said that in the id

contrary impulses exist

side by side

without cancelling

each other out,

that in fact,

there is nothing

in the id which

corresponds

to the idea of time.

 

So could this mean

those random chalk erasures

that lured our imaginations

away from our troubles,

mine old, yours young,

make us two versions

of the very same yearning?

 

The sky is nothing

if not an equal playing field

for no other reason than

it un-shelters us all

with a series of deft smudges.

For this I will always

be grateful.

 

Go ahead, erase my words.

You are enough.

 

8/20/22

 

Mirror

I am the perfect host.

I accept things as they are.

I am egoless, mindless.

In the presence of a flower

I hold a flower.

If a bird comes,

I am its cage.

Confronted by beauty

I become beautiful.

In the company

of ugliness

I accept it as my own.

I am everything

as is.

I am undiscriminating,

without self-consciousness.

If something appears,

I welcome it as a guest.

When it disappears

I let it go

not looking back.

If I were

capable of thought,

I would receive

each thought

as a visitor.

I, myself

do not venture out

as I am

too quicksilver,

and lack impetus.

I am fearless,

unable

to absorb.

I abhor

an empty room

as they leave me

listless,

impenetrable,

cold.

And so

I wait

ready to share

this shining

moment

at the merest

of glances.

 

 

08/18/2022

 

 

 

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