MAN GIVES BIRTH

ON THE A LINE

It’s true. I was there.

I’m the man who gave

birth on the A train.

In fact, I give

birth on a regular basis.

I tend to conceive

on public transit.

Something about the proximity

to all that humanity

I find very stimulating.

I’m a fertile person.

As I write this

I’ve had to pull

over to the side

of the road

and have one off

in the ditch.

No use dialing 911.

I’m having it

(let’s just call it it)

because

I must have it.

I want to have it.

Unless maybe

it’s having me.

Either way we

have each other.

I tell my young:

You are

the axe I bring

to the frozen sea

inside me.

If that’s true

then this is how

I hum

new life into being;

by singing my body

eclectic.

My offspring arrive

as something wild

in an otherwise

homogeneous

world.

Sometimes

while doing

mundane chores

they insist

on drawing

their first breath.

Standing at the kitchen sink

washing a plate

I’ll suddenly find myself

crowning,

needing to drop

whatever I’m doing

to accommodate

the new arrival.

When I come to,

I see this broad shouldered

bottle of JOY

watching over my labor

like a butch guard

giving me side eye.

I’ve learned to expect

no mercy from

household objects.

They’ll never know

the miracle of motherhood

let alone fatherhood.

My little ones aren’t clones,

I tell myself

standing there

as my water

breaks in

acquiescence

to my own

bundle of joy.

Then there was that time

on the Express train,

so stiflingly hot

the car smelled

like a stable, when

a “blessed event”

materialized

out of nowhere

as I was surrounded

by strap hangers.

I read the car

as one reads a room

taking in

a motley crew

of blank faces staring

at their phones

blissfully unaware

of me or my contractions:

There was this heavy-set man

eating an over-stuffed bagel,

he certainly couldn’t be bothered,

then this lawyerly dude

wearing headphones

practicing how NOT to

“BE HERE NOW”,

a teenager with a skateboard

leaning against the door

not minding the gap,

and this girl with too much make-up on

mesmerized by her spectral reflection

in the fleeting light of passing cars,

all while my shallow breath

enacted its makeshift Lamaze.

Only a bug-eyed kid

holding onto his mother’s

hand for dear life

seemed to see me,

gawking at me as if

he were ringside at the circus

watching a clown get stomped

by an elephant.

Children don’t turn away

from such things.

I wouldn’t have.

Still, was the subway

in August

any place for

the miracle of birth?

I think not.

Even so, with each new conception

I feel a sense of pride I am unable

to muster for myself alone.

Don’t think I haven’t wondered

what carnal knowledge

results in so

much fecundity.

For all intents and purposes

these are immaculate conceptions.

I could be

being impregnated

in my sleep.

Things happen in the dark.

For all we know the Gods

invented sleep

for the chance

to ravage

a blinkered consciousness.

Maybe we’re all just fish

in the barrel of night.

Thankfully, giving birth

gives my life a kind of

Herculean meaning.

I’ve become so accustomed

to labor and delivery

I could…give Amazon

a run for its money.

One of my favorite things

about the whole messy business

is naming

each new arrival.

I’ve always been a title man.

Feeling parental,

I feel the need to

prepare my little ones

for the indignities and

injustices of the world.

Of course I want them

to be good,

to be admired,

to be loved by

any persons

who find themselves

in their company

and so I carefully

shape them,

dress them in

the colors that show

them at their best.

Even when they resist,

insisting on their own autonomy,

I listen and weigh

my ragged wisdom

against their

effortless purity

hoping to find

some middle ground.

Still, I can't keep

molding them in

my own image.

At some point

they will have to

live in this world

on their own;

maybe even meet

with some resistance

or cause confusion

for those who prefer

explanation over EXPLORATION;

in other words

cold facts over warm fictions.

I read in Plato’s Symposium,

that Plato wrote to Socrates:

“All human beings are

pregnant both in body

and in soul, and when

we come of age, we

naturally desire to give

birth.”

I’ll go one further.

We all give birth to ourselves,

every day, every hour,

in every moment.

Oh, and by the way, the word

Symposium in Greek?

Means: drinking party.

Maybe Plato was drunk

when he wrote that.

Either way,

If asked how

I manage,

a single man giving birth

alone in the world,

I’d simply say

I’ve no control over

when or where

inspiration strikes

or when inception occurs,

but what I do know

is that my progeny

springs from the unlikely loins

of a poor man's

Apollo.

 Dandelions

The dandelions

agree to everything,

caring little for where

they find themselves.

Accustomed to feeling

inferior,

they are content to live

by their own means

as others do by their wits.

Contrary to their reputation,

they are not a weed,

nor the chosen flower

for a boutonniere

on a wino’s lapel.

But they are the Fool’s gold

of the floral world,

accustomed to being dismissed.

Bright countenance,

you lift your face

in prayerful alliance

and mimic the sun

as if it were

joyful to be humble.

Though lacking glamour,

your simplicity speaks

with startling

sophistication.

Even as your roots

gain strength

by interlocking

hands

beneath

the earth.

Inclined to cluster,

you enjoy nothing

more than being

amongst your own kind,

as if your sunny

alphabet

dared to spell

a word more

definitive than

your color.

Though

in numbers

you seem

an unruly mob,

you alone

form

a chorus.

Even as

a solo choir,

you remain

undaunted

by hardship

or landscape.

Plucked and held

under a chin,

it is possible

to make of you

a golden butter,

proof that your

divine imagination

is in harmony with

the sun's rays.

Then,

after living

a life of vibrant yellow,

your exuberance

matures

exploding into

a backward butterfly,

living proof

that breath becomes

a ghost in the chill air;

a gentle geometry

of fireworks

that is nothing less

than holographic.

Evolving,

you finally implode,

initiating

an unexpected

transformation

with your

final act:

to fulfill the wish

blown from

the lips

of a child

bold enough to yearn

for something

greater.

Let the Colors Take You to Themselves

Art lives

as long as

it goes unfathomed.

Once plumbed, it dies

a transient’s death.

Digestion precludes disposal.

Therefore, be careful

what you choose

to make self-evident.

Immortality is for

the enigmatic.

That said

to renounce anything

has its uses.

Maybe it takes

casting the self aside

before we can truly

become authentic;

for our bravery to set in,

a loss of inhibition,

the first perilous prerequisite.

Such a quiet compulsion

to go on harboring.

But what other choice is there?

How better to register

the quake that occurs when

the world loses

something or someone

than through

a work of art?

Circumstances are pretense,

but cause is a canvas.

To act,

to paint,

to write,

to dance,

to sing,

to play

“as if”

what we do has its roots

in our deepest being.

As if we matter.

As if others care.

As if we weren’t giving

birth to ourselves

in every single moment.

Dabbing some paint

in the form of words

on a jute

made of morning

is how one begins to

make something

out of nothing.

I like being imaginative early

as it helps me detox

from the night’s ferocities.

My body gets the bends

from rising too fast.

I start every day

a kink from head to foot.

I don’t know about you,

but my nights are

awash in pathologies,

even as my days teeter

atop a heap

of humdrum

literal minutiae:

feed the cat,

piss in the pot,

wash the dishes,

brush my teeth…

to the more

reflective desire

to match my mood

with what I wear.

Blue says

I’m poised for peace.

Red says

I’m looking to connect.

Green always

for want of a woods.

 

As If

 

How many of us

are living life 

as if 

there is no God?

Even if we pray, 

the despair in our voices 

reinforces his absence.

As if 

he's

a delinquent father 

we'll never be close to. 

 

What if we were to wake 

up one day 

lying on the outside 

of ourselves?

Spontaneously ashamed, 

embarrassed even, for living

as if 

we are unloved, 

despite how many

may or may not 

have reached out

toward us.

Would it still be

an acceptable posture 

to maintain?

 

As if 

we were tramps 

homeless in a rainswept city. 

As if 

we were tourists

wandering a Roman ruin.

As if 

nothing added up 

or possessed any meaning. 

As if 

we were lost children

feeling our way 

through the dark.

As if 

we don’t belong anywhere.

As if 

living a nightmare 

we cannot wake up from.

As if 

we were deaf, 

dumb, and blind.

As if 

we weren’t here 

for a reason.

As if 

 we were beggars 

in a house of plenty.

 

As if.

4/12/24