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HEART
Some call you
a pump
and it’s true
that move blood’s
what you do.
When the world
has shown up
and gone
pleasingly plump
in an ocean
of poignancy,
you’re what
I reach in
and feel.
You go “thump”
or you flutter
whenever I touch
what’s out there
with the lover
you are
deep in here.
Oh, lump
in my chest,
you’re the king
of the praiseworthy song;
you’re the queen
of all things,
and especially moments
that move me
to tears,
when the love
that you are
melts my
pushing away
what is awe,
what’s enchanting,
what’s too much
to hold
without shaking apart.
I let go,
My Dear Heart.
Are you breaking?
It is you
who makes me–
in each metronome moment–
all new.
We are never apart!
Maka and Mika, diamond doves age 3 months
CONFESSION
As you may
or not know,
I at times–
many times!–
stub my toe.
That would not
be so bad,
but the place
in my psyche
that suddenly feels
I’ve been cruelly
and horribly had
gets enraged–
and my beautyless beast
of the
four-letter word
becomes bellicose, ugly,
and rowdy, uncaged.
I do not become
fully unglued,
like the chair
I once threw
when frustration blew
all of my
“cool guy” facade.
Then, my names
for Dear God,
who created this tongue–
and us all!–
were the kind
you might find
not in hymnals
at church,
but rather flung out
by some smarmy
old bum
in the sleaziest slum
or beer-queasy,
speakeasy dance hall.
You see,
I’m the kind
who cannot hold
his liquor,
who can’t
chew his gum
and walk straight
in a line,
let alone
hum the tune
of some grand
waltz of Strauss
in his own
living room
without making
the punch
of this show
be the catch
of his front-striding toe
on the leg
of the sofa
that presses invisibly
(at least to him),
on the torn rug
that’s resting below–
crying “ouch”
when he strikes
that ambushing conjunction,
requiring at times
some soft ointment
or extremest unction.
This confession about
what it’s like
to be me
in a world
of hard knocks,
it isn’t that hard
to speak true.
Yeah, the hardest
of all
are those
merciless surfaces,
lurking;
subliminal places
that unmake
my day,
that pre-empt
my perception
and wallop
good dreams
about peripatetic perfection;
that hobble
me wobbly,
give cruelest pause
in a way
that spells pain,
that can whiten me,
tighten my jaws.
Still, I see
that I’ll do it
again and again.
Yes, I know,
it’s insane,
but “they” say
it’s a way
for my blossoming
spiritual nature
to grow.
This annoyance,
it’s said,
is a “gift”
I should see,
that I”d “better
embrace it”
before it
turns ’round
and wraps me!
But to them
I implore
that they please
get their kicks
somewhere other
than Buddhist folklore
aimed at me–
’cause their preaching’s becoming
a brain-bashing bore,
and a crossed toe
to forever bear,
that’s for sure!
Yes, it sucks,
I’m abashed,
and foot-digitally trashed;
but, no matter,
I figure,
this lifer
of klutz
is probably,
anyway,
hopelessly,
shit outa luck.
Then again…
shall we call
a toe-truck?
Barry Sultanoff
3/8/14
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