1. Denial
The expert says, her voice barely over a whisper
Never yours
From the flat five stories high, I seek to make sense
Of the architecture of my life and outside the window
A church that resembles a football stares me in the face
And the logic of your transgressions begins to take geometric shape
Inside I have a Moroccan carpet and little else that is mine
A few suits, articles of personal hygiene
A computer, groceries and an iPOD
No possessions that connect me to life, no old posters, scribbled poems
Or picture postcards, memories of thirty-seven abandoned years!
And forget the sounds, this land is eternally quiet
2. Anger
The expert looks up, her time is up, social life beckoning
Hate you
You need a vacation from hatred
Find a map and an index card to find life again
Do something, I can only react
I am just a mime, acting out your pain
Over cheap beers and plat de jour
Then I saw a woman, bending down over the workmen
Body turning bronze, glistening with sweat
Looking for laughs, moving with music,
A step forward, a step back, head tilted,
A big smile, celebrating something that needed celebrating
Your lips were parched, thirsty, your eyes beaded
Late in the evening, when the music stopped
When you carried loads of feelings, traded them for cheap laughs
And stumbled home or wherever the walk took you,
I shall know I am not in the night anymore
Fontan to Muffat, Nana runs and finds the curse
Within herself. Help is no recourse
And power is without might
So there is nothing to do but wait
Will the scene change in time
Before the smallpox takes its turn?
3. Bargaining
The expert says, now deeply disturbed, like a fox
We spoke about this before
I like to think he died in his sleep, peaceful
Without debts and unpaid compliments
He had no “I love You”s left to spend
No “I hate you”s to say
Perhaps a cough or two, not even loud
Enough to wake others up
Like turning off for a time, taking a break
He may have abdicated, divided wrongly in pique,
And forced Cordelia into France
But I did not eat fish in his watch
He cheated by departing
before his day at the cliffs
I try my pockets for chump change, a beggar waits under a brothel
As I pass, it is getting colder; Mont Blanc peeks from under the clouds
Back in my room, familar sounds echo to form grotesque vocal shapes
I can feel the ground separating, first a slow cut, then the whole
Earth shakes loose, falls apart, I fall, holding on to the chair,
But the chair is falling too, and the table, and my laptop
And the picture frames, the lone plant
I reach for the autograph book, an insurance, for eBay
As I fall into the dark depths, erased from memory
Identities gone in a second, disappeared
A play within a play, rituals acted out in precision,
Tears when expected, mechanical movements when called for,
A spontaneous eulogy, I look over and see Lena and Joel
Standing still, like statues in the wrong temple
I know it is time to leave, or I will drown in warmth
4. Depression
The expert says, in a voice tingling with irritation
Never call again
Death happens, but in sleep, peacefully?
No! That is not how it happened.
There was blood, and some fear and a lot of facial
Convulsions. He forgot to say he loved anyone
He did have hate left in him, his death was interrupted
Repeatedly by hate. In the end he left no poems,
No apologies, no neatly scribbled notes
Just a trail of blood that drew a neat squiggle all the way
From the wrist to the floor, like a red nylon wire
Are you my Roland Zagreus and am I your Mersault?
And what have I inherited? Curses, a poem so beautiful and haunting
That I will never get to read?
Channeling yourself in memory? Loathing?
A long run from the tracks, from possibilities?
Your nihilistic gift by proxy results in nothing
Except more nihilism, even then I refuse to go.
Acceptance
The expert says, her voice now bloody and frothing
Never will be
A long walk ensues, a lantern is carried first
Head then, the body lies still, tied and bound
More memories, death has a funny way to
Shake up strange feelings in people; perfectly fine
Just that, I cannot be responsible for the deaths
And the dark shadows and bad decisions from the past
A. Alternatives
Expert vanishes, into thin air
Three dots take her place, dot-dot-dot
Outside, tangentially over a distance is another street
Another country, another world, another evening
That is never mine
A divine itch separates these two worlds
Heart burns, fears, deaths, recanted invitations to sit at the host table
Lies, half-truths, open sores that many hurtful lacerations left
I watch it and laugh, then try not to cry
No promises to return, no tears
Not even false starts that lead to the wrong path
Promontories on the way, mere obstacles, often seats
(for I too have been seated, seen, learned)
Seldom objects of desire, never end-goals
Does the maman have to die every time before the stranger
Seeks meaning? A play attended, alone
Or with lies, sparks the alienation of self
Arguments ensue, battles are fought,
Camus dies out of context and is forgotten
Reach back and remember, where did the
Fulcrum lose its screw?
I don’t like Sundays either.
Postscript
I am still sleeping, quietly in my bed, dreaming
For me, this is just a scene. I don’t even play a role,
Not even as an extra. Sometimes I like to think I am just a voice
Edging you to follow Hermia, what good comes of Egeus follies?
I seek my Puck, O Goodfellow, I know when you will awake
And see the wisdom for short-ended sticks
Scene changes and dream vanishes.
The expert has vanished, perhaps toasting to a party
Finding young George, seeking a plinth
To harbor all the vacating bricks
