A

Life

Among

Cannibals

 

i

 

They are legion.

Their just desserts

nothing less than

the pure at heart.

 

Infused by dissatisfaction,

barely at one

with their beliefs

they are passive aggressive.

Some with no capacity for joy.

Not to mention

the occasional consummate flake.

All are ouroboros;

swallowing their own tales

yet unable to

render what they want

from each other.

ii 

 

My story is apocryphal.

Having found

the calcification of I

a personal travesty,

I descended into darkest Apatha,

a missionary hoping to cleanse

my thinking by curating

superfluous thoughts.

 

Not so much quieting the mind

but mastering the silence

so as not to fall prey to distraction.

I constructed my days out of

the world’s predilection for

unceasing rejuvenation,

the detritus of which is

ever present for the taking.

 

Make no mistake,

there’s no poetry

in being devoured.

 

Look closely.

In every photo

the same face.

Always a show

of gnashing teeth.

Taking information in

with or without nuance,

reducing everything 

to pure sustenance.

They like their

picture taken,

craving proof

of their own existence;

without need for beliefs,

a life reduced to

only documentation.

My mistake was in wanting

to be palatable, appealing,

which only increased

their appetites

even while I feared

being eaten.

Then again, 

I am their smorgasbord.

iii

I blame myself.

My imagination is muscular;

strong, sleek, supple,

the very incarnation of nutrition.

They talk of beauty,

theirs and others

as if all were items

on a fast-food menu.

 

They will not be disregarded,

nor stand silently by.

They grapple for attention,

hijacking any conversation,

setting traps, baiting,

tipping every room

towards themselves.

Manic, over-active, acting out,

they gather their victims

to brazenly procure,

unable to help themselves.

Consuming everything

by gulping it down

then spitting out the bones.

They are always hungry.

 

With everything on the table,

who needs a place setting

seeing as they could just as easily

feed on each other?

02/20/24

 

 

                                ~Valentines Day as Cupid

The Ministry of Misplaced Joy

“Only a few people are awake.

And they live in a state of

constant amazement.”

~Joe Versus the Volcano

At some point small moments

can become momentous

so we might dwell in awe.

Letting water erase

the sleep from our faces,

along with

the night’s travails

before they enter the city’s

blood stream

via a trap door

in the floor,

we're flushed like fish

won at a fair

to join forces in

the labyrinthian plumbing below,

interlocked as

Escher’s goldfish gone

in search of the sea.

How else are we

to water ourselves?

Letting go

may be the best way

we know

to ease our pain,

aside from finding

an unexpected miracle

in the mundane.

And so we prepare for the worst

by embracing more beauty.

A cayote sighting in Central Park,

things found where they

don’t belong.

Uncomfortable in our skin

today anyway

having cut so much loose

to stay afloat

all because it can be

so disheartening

to reflect on better times.

How does our

wanting to share

with another

every experience

become a source

of anguish?

If the heart is a utility;

a misplaced Phillips head

in the silverware drawer,

then why not a wish

granted by the God

of lost gadgets

to make better

use of ourselves?

Can we really

compose our joys?

Finding the cat

the epitome

of selfishness,

we may realize

we've been

a dog person

all along.

After all,

we know our place,

we like to please,

and live for

self mastery.

So, from now on

here’s what we can do:

Dwell in awe.

Press our ear

to the mouth

of a flower.

Listen to a tree.

Honor our sadness.

Celebrate someone.

Be grateful for everything

and everyone.

Engage in random kindnesses.

You never know

when or where

the darkness will alight.

2/2/24

Restless

The thread of Michigan leads back through its stones,

while beneath the Gazan rubble rests God’s weary bones.

Me, I fret the sturm and drang that rattles at my panes;

glass, such a translucent partition for keeping out the rain.

Gray light pours its shadow, the color of cement,

dumping its counterfeit canopy over 43rd & 10th.

I fear an airborne flowerpot shattering upon the hour,

any pretense of protection gone out with the power.

How can I make better use of life wiling in-between

the stupefying effect of my monotonous routine?

How fast the weeks whizz by while I duly loiter

a man feigning thirst beside a plenitude of water.

With weekdays a compartmentalized pill box,

perfect barometer for the daily mise en scéne,

my past perceptibly growing more beautiful

by remaining sight unseen.

Monday the scrawny cat needs milking.

Tuesday’s for trimming hair with shears.

Wednesday’s for leaving a book unfinished.

Thursday’s for staring into anonymous mirrors.

Friday, I swallow the house with my vacuum.

Saturday, I spit the world back out whole.

Sunday, I mistake the flour for talcum.

While daily trying to regain my soul.

01/16/24

 

 

 

 

 An Age of Enlightenment 

 

We can do this. 

Without benefit of a tribe. 

In the absence of family. 

Having outlived many friends and lovers. 

Having wailed at the sky and heard no answer. 

Honing the ability to make do. 

Taking compliments and criticism with a grain of salt. 

Realizing we are host to every visitor, 

even the thoughts that arrive willy nilly. 

Finding romance the wanting of Love for the sake of loving. 

Finding Creativity a religion and the Earth its church. 

Loving the stars too fondly to be fearful of night. 

We discover less and less is needed for a happy life. 

  

Peter Valentyne

1/26/24