Man Trapped in an Airtight Box
I am
trapped
inside an
airtight box
of privilege,
crafted
of crystal panels,
beveled beauties,
with perfect angles,
temperature controlled
like a fine museum,
hermetic,
with unobstructed views
of the awe
I will never know,
the mysteries
I will never solve,
the marvels
I will never master,
blooming like
water colored
petals of
youth,
dewy, fresh,
and virginal,
breathy and anxious,
looking in
while I’m
looking out
at a world
in constant,
stationary motion,
angry and complacent,
hungry and sated
thirsty yet drowning
stymied in a fusion
of shit
and splendor,
malice
and magnificence,
repulsion
and resplendence,
suffused like
river haze
metastasizing
in a hover of
unstable
possibilities,
imploring,
urging,
cajoling me
to shatter
that security,
smash
my comfort,
detonate
my stasis
like an incendiary
insurgent,
a radical,
a Bolshevik,
and risk
everything.
But what would people say?
Ghost
do you slip into my room
as I lie sleeping?
swipe my shoulders
hover around
my restless legs
tickle my eyelashes
and itch my nose?
are you hunkered down in the corner
behind the family rocker
perhaps tipping it
ever-so-slightly
with an eternal breath?
mingling with the darkness
like jungle mist
sewing together the edges
like blankets?
because I sense you are
incognito
an advance man
reconning my slumber
painting me with valor
massaging my morality
salving my soul
co-opting my shell
to deliver a message
your warmth
washing over me
in the gloam
as I stir
aware that I am unaware
of your trespass
then the periwinkle light
pokes through the curtains
and you evaporate
Low-Hanging
did she at least pluck
a ripe
Red Delicious
or a nice Gala
maybe a McIntosh
or a perfect Honeycrisp,
probably not a Winesap, those are hard to come by,
nor a Granny Smith, which are better for pies and such,
but a sweet, juicy variety,
the nectar
running like a mountain stream
down the contours of her arm,
meaty and satisfying,
infusing her with
satiation and
satisfaction-
that husky snap
when you take a bite,
on a crisp Autumn day
when the sun is determined,
eking out the evaporating warmth of goodness,
clinging like a desperate leaf,
a cool breeze harkening the imminent darkness,
or did she even consider the downside,
the mess, the stickiness,
or how really pissed he would be
because the tree wasn’t hers
and she’d been warned-
he’d drawn a line in the dirt
and made his position very clear.
Was she really that naïve,
or just careless
or dazzled by the pastoral scene
that smacked of a still-wet Titian?
Whatever her excuse, she sure caused a bruhaha
and people just will.not.let.it.go.
Moments
He haunts me in the morning shuffle
or the gravity of night
in the sublimation of the day
in an afternoon of light
He slips into my consciousness
like a schooner on a lake,
lingering there like honey
or as bonfire smoke uptakes
Not a ghost or frightly spirit
nor a goblin in a stir
but as a barometric feeling
with a temperature concur
And his presence washes over
any animosity I bear
siphoning out the venom,
transmuting burdens that I wear
Then departs me in mid-moment
and his substance flits away,
leaving me a better man
to carry on my day
A Surrealist Takes a Shave
I see a figure
quite like me
in the foggy glass
marshmallow slathered
like meringue
across his weary face
I lean in
and wrinkle my nose
raise the device to my cheek
and slide
quick and smooth
deliberately
shaking off the excess
plop in the hot water
again, I take the risk
scrape and slice
ouch!
a well of blood
trickles down my gullet
a rivulet
curving like a vermillion worm
my head begins to sway and swirl
my knees go soft
and my life flashes in the steam
the joy and the sorrow
the bliss and the bother
my soul rising to the surface like a buoy
I feel faint
my life’s decisions- every one of them-
cyclone in mad distemper
those broken promises,
the false starts,
lies I’ve told myself- and others
neglect and neuroses
delusions and disappointment
so much time wasted on pointless internet searches
forging friendships with people who catch the redeye to Vegas
and vanish like lottery winnings.
Suddenly I hear a voice
I think I see Jesus holding a handmade sign
at a busy intersection
he looks cross
and uncertain
and shakes his noggin
then my eyes roll up like cheap window shades
and I know what that means.
I try to make peace with it in that critical moment
I beg forgiveness
I try to recite the Confiteor
but I end up mumbling mealtime grace mixed with the Pledge of Allegiance
then the steam clears like receding storm clouds
and I realize I should stick a tear of toilet paper on the cut
and get on with my life.
Haunted
What is this membrane
stretched
like an amniotic sack between us
in the thin thickness of the Other?
Why can I sense you,
your faint laughter and radiant smile,
your parental voice- steady and strong- yet distant,
your laboring hands, talcum powder and Old Spice,
yet I cannot quantify you?
like a pin prick or an electric pulse,
a rush of gulf air
or a hovering drizzle
you are so close
right there,
a daffodil pushing up ground
prenatal and burgeoning
but unattainable
just behind the marmalade streaks of dawn
across the morning fog
co-mingled into the river steam
suffused into the cumulus clouds
melted into the twilight moment
meshed in the midnight magic,
omnipresent,
encircling me,
imbued in the wan light,
but to no avail
The Last Day of Innocence
She snuggles
her nose in my arm
to affirm my stature
as the center of her universe
do I want some sassafras tea?
or a mound of blackberry cobbler
still hot enough to melt ice cream?
We could frolic in the yard,
alongside the tangerine daylilies,
barefoot and free of all encumbrances
or stroll to Jordan’s Pond and skip stones,
“Anything your little heart desires.”
She scoops me up
and swings me by my skinny arms,
her wide smile exposing her gold tooth,
the folds of her dress fluttering in the September swell
her magical laugh wrung dry of her painful past
fluid in this moment of preternatural glory,
of innocence as pale as my skin,
completely oblivious to the roaring overhead
black coughs trailing through the clouds
in a downward spiral
the news bulletin on the transistor radio
muffled by their roar
as she giggles,
pushes her face into my scrawny chest,
and sighs,
her green eyes as big as planets
her voice cotton soft
as the menace slices through the sapphire sky,
her arms surround me
but no avail
Grace
soar,
oh near-forgotten sister,
into the vastness
of a world
enmeshed in violence
provocation
and disparity
washed clean
sanitized
and sanctified
for the task.
diffuse your spirit
ubiquitous
in the hoary air
among the misbegotten,
the miscreant,
the miserable,
like pollen
engendering life
in the breath of air
o’erspread like buttery sunshine
a wave blanketing the shore
re-baptizing
so that we might reclaim ourselves
and be spared
the wrath
The Sadist
Slash my shin
break my bones
gouge my eyes
and leave me alone
cut my quick
squeeze my blood
run like rivulets
be done
crack my skull
char my skin
stab my heart
once again
but why not stay
and watch your will
enjoy my woe
indulge your thrill?
or is the goal
just press the bane
and not to dwell
on others’ pain?
My New Suit
my new suit is
rather
unorthodox
with narrow lapels
buttonless
zipper on the far-right side
in nubby navy wool
just the spectacle my weary wardrobe
needs
I think I wear it
well
as I descend into Newstead Station
past a violinist
mumbling ragamuffins
and BLM scrawl on the tile
en route to my job
processing bureaucracy
and obfuscation to the people
the car is stuffed
everyone jockeys for a seat
preferably near the door
as I cruise the aisle
I snag my slacks on someone’s
luggage
the integrity of the fabric
now
in question
I feel the weave unravel
tickling my leg
loose and breezy
a Latinx tugs on my sleeve
with calloused brown fingers
the thread dangling
“I reparo for you” she offers
but I wave her off
because I realize
in a bold epiphany
bathed in golden light
near the 34th Street stop
that this suit was reckless
the style has no substance
the fabric without integrity
and that I will likely
be naked
by 5 o’clock
Grief Train
The Grief Train
pulled into the station
onyx black
steam hissing
angry, sullen,
and I handed the porter my single ticket
for grief is a solitary passage.
I claimed my seat,
facing backwards,
the only option,
nearest the couplings
clanging in the gloam,
the rhythm of nihilism
gnawing at my brain,
and watched the others board:
a Latina whose daughter drowned in the Rio crossing,
a lamenting veteran,
a husbandless wife,
a father whose son slipped
through his fingers,
a sister who survived the massacre,
a lover lost.
We sensed that we did not sense each other,
and traveled in silence,
blur in the windows,
arctic air at our bones,
with beads and bibles,
photos and fragments,
tears and trinkets,
clutched to our hearts.
and we rode.
After hours or months or decades or days,
(for one is as the other),
the iron horse crawled to a stop.
We sat,
all of us
in silent stagnation,
until the porter gently
ushered us
to our destinations,
surprisingly all the same.
I disembarked,
numb and knotted,
and followed the path
of crucible stones
to the other side
of the languishing locomotive,
stood in line,
until the porter punched
my ticket,
and I boarded the Grief Train
again.