The

Poetry

Defense

Will the poem please rise.

(The poem stands, holds

up right hand)

                                

Do you agree to tell the truth,

the whole truth, and nothing

but the truth, so help you

God?

“If allowed to be myself.”

It’s come to the attention

of this court that you

will be representing

your case

and giving unsolicited

testimony in opposition

to the standard norm

as you seem to suffer

from a form of autism,

an inability to hold

your own at table.

“I do not suffer autism,

rather, I speak in tongues;

the language of

consequence.”

Is it true that you are the

sole witness to a murder

in which a body

has yet to be found?

“I myself am murdered

on a daily basis

as my existence

no longer

causes a stir.”

Is it true you can never be

sure what you saw

but can make your feelings known

via magnetic refrigerator verse

and a Scrabble of nouns

and verbs that you

have claimed as the last

vestige for honesty?

“I am a consciousness

in recovery, your honor.”

Is it also true that you are

incapable of the literal

and choose only to think

with your heart?

“I find facts too unfeeling.”

It says here that you are

incapable of lying

as truth is always

what you refer to

as “said” feeling.

“A poem has no reason to lie.

 Nor will you reason me away.”

How is it that you are able

to testify from inside your body

when, in fact, you only have life

to those who gaze upon you?

“To ease the burden

of my gift for knowing,

I wait to be loved.”

Does this odd cadence

of yours

assist you

in remembering?

“My way of speaking

is my crux for change.”

How so? You might please

the court by giving us

an example.

“Money spends us.”

Surely you can be more explicit.

“I am not a bill of goods.”

It states here that

on cross examination

you were able to

make use of

time travel to trace

the very first ring

you purchased with your

allowance earned by

mowing lawns and carrying

your father’s golf clubs

at a local Country Club.

I believe it was

during a side trip

to see “The Mystery Spot”,

where you say it was

actually possible

to roll a ball uphill.

It says here that it was

off highway I-75 that your

family’s blue Buick struck

and killed a deer.

Was that in fact, the first time

you saw a thing die?

“I don’t curry in facts, but

I’ve seen myself die

many times.”

Come now, you can’t say

such a thing so blithely

when you stand before

this court so clearly

evidence to the contrary.

“I am never contrary.”

Allow me to press you further.

It’s written here that this

incident with the deer

led to a protracted puberty

spent practicing witchcraft,

a kind of latent sorcery.

“I am helpless to be

anything other than

the sum total of my

own ramifications.”

Do you pretend to be so elliptical

that you find it unnecessary

to explain yourself to the satisfaction

of this court? Would you dare to be

so un-bold as to be

blasphemous?

“My hidden talent is for playing

dead by the side of the road.”

Then your words are less

than antidotal.

“I am con to your prose.

I am more antidote.

Therefore, you are

the blasphemy.”

I would address this court

with more respect. It is not your

place to file complaint.

“Poetry never complains.

If it’s any good.”

What else does poetry never do,

I’d be remiss not to ask?

(The poem begins to shed it’s garments.)

“I make no judgments

of those who observe me.

I pass no illnesses, nor carry germs.

I don’t gossip and never name names.

I won’t ask your age

or make small talk.

I never condemn the other.”

Go on, then.

“I am a gorgeously open-minded

corpse more than willing to be

lingered over by a cabal

of curious strangers.

I am a translator of spirit

and a vehicle for space travel,

inner and outer.

I am a vessel for relinquished

desire.

I am both chaff and wheat,

I am the ache to be whole.

A uniter of friends and enemies.

I am after all willing to stand

before you naked and shivering

stripped to the essential thing

for your callous inspection.

Don’t you see

I am naked before you, madams

and sirs!!”

You do well to unburden yourself.

Continue.

“I can disentangle your prides

and dismantle your fears

because I can make them mine.

I can lance a wound.

I can mix the blood of both

victim and perpetrator

and hold up a mirror

to your mirror and glimpse infinity.”

I dare say you are a know-it-all.

“I can get to the bottom of things,

show you what might go wrong

in cleaving to the literal and material

at the expense of the sacred.”

Then I suspect you are a force

to be reckoned with. Whatever

are we to conclude of you?

“Wedge me in a bottle

and cast me out to sea.

Go on living your lives

of logic and accumulation.

I will not be added to your

chaos of clutter.

I demand you embrace my

utter lack of utility.

I am guilty, your honor.

Do with me what you will,

only let me testify

to the astonishment

of having once been

gloriously

and inexplicably

alive.

(pause)

The defense rests.”

Peter Valentyne

June 2nd, 2019

Outlasting

Beauty

i

If we come to find

something wrong

with every fellow 

man we meet,

what are we

to ask ourselves?

What constitutes

disappointment

turned so 

inside-out?

It seems to me

there are

two kinds of wrong.

One endearing,

and the other 

defeating.

I’ve sifted through

myself for

which is which.

The endearing wrong

is rooted in experience,

misfortune, origin.

It is beyond

one’s control.

The defeating wrong,

I’m afraid,

is a confluence 

of ego, mind,

and

unconsciousness;

a refusal

of responsibility

for one’s own 

vibration,

an imbalance

that in breaking

the circle

consequentially 

maims the flower.

How could a daisy

love you not?

If a circle 

made of

spirit

can summon

the dead,

then

mine is a beauty

fashioned from

heartbreak.

And so I’ve begun 

to notice things

that weep,

or appear to weep.

Acacia trees letting go

of their pink petals,

the condensation 

from a steel pipe,

a sky too full

of rain.

What if

I 

no longer

need to be

loved?

Would I

finally 

be free?

With a youthful body

beyond my reach

I’m no longer 

baited

by beauty;

a standard

I can’t meet.

Happiness is

a grace

after all.

No longer

a target,

too nuanced

for arrows;

I am more 

mandala. 

Tuned,

circular,

self-sustaining,

with a sun

at it’s center.

ii

“My son had a breakdown,”

said the woman

with a bee keeper-like

sun bonnet.

She hovered over 

my deck chair

where I’d come 

with my book of poetry

so as not to appear

simply sun-seeking.

Her shadow 

superseded me

as she came closer

and added tentatively,

“But he’s better now.”

Her absence

of self assurance

unsettled me.

I immediately wanted

to know more

but contained my

curiosity,

tinged by a purple

aberrant 

half smile.

I always feel 

more than I show.

My son had a breakdown.

But he’s better now.

Her words rang in my brain

 a broken cathedral bell.

How am I better now?

I wondered.

What is this

miraculous recuperation 

one sentence away from

my own 

asymmetric harrow?

iii

I outlasted beauty.

Now

I am an abstract 

painting on the wall

in a museum 

depicting someone

who loved

another

more than himself;

once

stolen by Nazis,

recovered

and displayed

as proof

of my heart’s

progress.

Peter Valentyne

May 29th, 2019

The Crawling Eye

(A Fifties Monster)

Fear is it’s arsenal.

It wants to take your place.

It’s planet is Mercury.

It needs a history.

It does not know itself;

Save through you.

It’s country is a shadow

in the space

in which all things happen.

It arrives in a blanket

of fog to disable

your defenses. 

It has no politics

or religion,

no belief system.

It need only

feed off your memories

to amuse itself. 

It has stars in it’s eyes.

It wants you to make

wishes. 

It likes you lonely

because it is lonely.

It collects.

It obeys no logic.

It will do anything 

for you.

It wants to appear good.

It is always acting.

When it isn’t acting,

it can wait indefinitely.

If you resist,

it can be patient.

It can’t live on it’s own.

Your death gives it wings.

It wants you crippled,

anesthetized on a table.

Reacting won’t give it

what it needs.

It wants response.

This is how it measures you.

You must do more

than connect it’s dots;

it will produce your enemies

to better understand you.

It is insidious.

It lives by lulling

so it can study you,

where you are vulnerable,

it becomes vulnerable too.

But it is not vulnerable.

It likes to cry

and craves your tears.

It is extremely sentimental.

It sings when it is hurt;

a song of celebration 

and mourning.

It wants to know more,

yet there is no end

to it’s knowing.

It wants to know 

what you know.

It hates itself. 

Otherwise,

it would not need you.

It likes to comfort you

but it cannot comfort.

It’s comforting is all for show.

It wants you to need it.

It will do anything for you;

even die beside you.

You cannot get away from it

even by killing yourself.

It will go with you.

It feeds on your fear.

Fear draws it to you.

It cannot love itself.

It loves to trade 

it’s talents

gladly for yours.

It admires 

what you can do.

It wants your story.

It is endlessly curious

and all-seeing.

It wants in for a look around.

Once in

it goes through your things.

Nothing is missed.

But it leaves droppings.

That’s how you know.

It wants you to want.

It’s outlook is pessimistic.

It shows you darkness

but pretends to bring light;

two darks don’t make a light.

It finds out your sins

one by one;

this is how it eats.

It is never without hunger.

It loves everything you do.

It wants to do them with you

for twice the fun.

But make no mistake:

It gives only to take.

It has no transcendence.

It knows only wanting

and it’s emptiness 

must be filled.

It has tried to meditate

but it gets nothing.

And nothing won’t do.

If you are lonely

you may not resist.

If you have fortitude,

It will try and break in.

It doesn’t lose interest,

easily entertaining itself

while it waits.

Through your resistance

it knows you.

Resistance makes a muscle.

Resistance draws it down.

Your muscle is it’s food.

Save yourself.

Peter Valentyne

May 25th, 2019

Psychology of 

an Aching Body

Your mind ought be 

an over-thrown dictatorship 

if you’re to be 

any good

to anyone.

Your heart must plot 

to re-establish

a more tender 

sovereignty. 

Your face wants 

a life of it’s own,

let’s face it.

Given to coercing 

the hands

to do a more

purposeful bidding, 

as hands can do 

everything

save live a life 

of their own.

Your face flies 

it’s tattered flag

declaring your 

countries intentions;

it’s betrayal of truth,

a hapless art.

Your legs craving travel

remain pale slaves

to the feet which

favor the lesser

gravities

of water,

as if reduced

to doves stunned

out of flight.

All the while

the mouth rehearses

its memories

of a kiss,

wanting yet another

chance to go slower;

the starving slug

of it’s own

nocturnal kingdom.

Addicted to confession

and connecting, 

the most loving

mouth leaves

a sticky trail 

of longing.

Your heart, a sacred cow

buried in an open field,

a carcass destined to

feed the hungry;

it’s brokenness 

gives all who

approach it

strength.

Your nose lives 

by remembering

the essence of daisies

and dung.

The great categorizer,

the nostrils operate

with aloof efficiency,

uncategorically aware 

that smells

are life itself.

The penis, reduced

to living 

under wraps,

generating it’s own

mythic mystique

like a Garbo 

continuously lured

from retirement,

cherished by 

so many for it’s 

way with weeping.

Your hair, if any;

an evidence 

of life after death,

dust from the scalp,

holographic by nature

resembling

a stretch of sand

certain angels 

have tread

in hopes of being

followed

home.

Peter Valentyne

May 26th, 2019