Kafka in the Bath

            In retrospect, I see there were signs that some sort of calamity was looming.

Something evil had invaded my sinuses. My head was throbbing. I felt out of sorts. Cumulonimbi hung over Queens. And, last night, according to NPR, a tornado struck a town south of Topeka, leaving one girl missing and ninety-four other residents dead.

            I was beginning to feel convinced that all of these events were related—that an inscrutable sky connected us all. I shut my eyes and I shuddered. Such a thought was almost too horrible to contemplate.

Of course, I might have seen it coming. I might have taken a few of those elementary precautions the Federal Government recommends. I might have duct-taped my windows. I might have taken a moment to caulk that fracture in the plaster under the sink. I might have signed up for extermination on the clipboard in the lobby. I might have been better prepared to receive such a guest.

And still, as I studied my visitor in the gray light as he slept—blind as a drunk movie star to the fragility of his existence—I wondered: Is a telegram really too much to ask?

Had a wire arrived from Prague in time, I would have done many things differently. I doubt that I would have attended graduate school, but I certainly would have taken an antihistamine before I went to bed. And I would have set my alarm for 6:30. And I would have brewed tea instead of coffee this morning—lapsang souchong, perhaps. Right now, I might be nibbling hamantaschen from my favorite Hungarian pastry shop, instead of telling a story.

I could see a million alternative futures radiating out from that absent delicacy: an apricot jelly horizon, where each sunbeam is made up of an infinity of crumbly moments, where each individual moment is more maddeningly delicious than the next.

If only he had called! We might have enjoyed a nice breakfast together and had a jolly good laugh.

He did not.

We did not.

Under the circumstances, I ask you: What else could I do?

I was tired. I had a headache. For a skull-splitting second, I shifted my eyes from the gigantic insect dozing in my tub toward my feet on the talcum-dusted bath mat.

With a sigh, I slid out of my right slipper. I lifted it above my head, carefully avoiding the shower curtain rod, while keeping one eye on Kafka.

            He would die in his sleep like my dreams.

Out of Doors

For Gavin

Not being a sleepwalker by nature, I
seldom find myself wandering into brick
shithouses by moonlight. I will drop by
the fridge to gnaw on a cold drumstick—

now and then—seized by hunger pangs—
the result of the treadmill. I’ve been doing
so much running. I want to look good for you
in Frisco, or Black Mountain, wherever

pale asses glow most poetically by night.
I am thinking of myself here. I see
me—for no good reason—because I am
incarcerated in a gray cubicle—

abandoning treadmills for roads—doing
dirty things out doors: lying under
a tree, sharing a green sleeping bag—
well-fed, well-fucked—well, wondering if

this sort of life would make me happy—
if, God forbid, this fantasy came true.

The Lady in Sky

After having wasted my entire morning trying to write something new, I suddenly remembered something...



Mrs. Russell
(1911-2006)

Her head encased in braids and hats of tin—
Her cheeks—the cliffs of Dover, chalky white—
She swells enormously—becomes all chin—
My big Brunnhilde—though she died last night.

She might just be the first Canadian
To be invited by the Valkyries
For beer and pretzels at that shady inn
Lusty ladies lounge at in the skies.

I heard her first when I was seventeen.
I’m not sure if she sang it at the Met,
I picture her in Tosca—in that scene
Where Tosca jumps down off the parapet—

Surrounded by a fluttering nightgown,
Beating passionately at her breast,
Until the house, until creation crashes down.
In Heaven she will be a huge success.



...

I really did meet Anna Russell, back in 1991. It was at a library function at Boston University. She shook my hand and complimented me on my collection of Gilbert and Sullivan memorabilia. She seemed a very kind and friendly person. I had no idea she would show up in a poem 17 years later. I hope she doesn't take it amiss...

And another thing...

Well, after a whiff of mortality, some smelling salts, and the flutter of a sympathetic fan, I think I have started to recover from the universal excitement generated by my first posting. I hope that you have, too. My friend Bill had some very nice things to say about the magenta and rose color scheme I have employed here.

If I seem a little wistful this afternoon, I hope you will forgive me. I am trying to make up for lost time. You see, I have been trying to publish some of this stuff for years. And to suddenly realize what most people realized ten years ago—that you have the freedom to embarrass yourself in public without any help from others—is totally disorienting.

There is nothing so shattering to a person's personality—his sense of self— than a belated Epiphany. Everyone thinks himself a genius in his own little corner of the cosmos, and to discover otherwise is somewhat—er—unsettling. It is worse than showing up late for a party. It is more like showing up late to an orgy—when the beer is warm, the women are cold, and the only thing left to eat are cheese-doodles.

Which reminds me: I need to get some lunch...

While I am off eating, here is a poem involving the ghost of Harry Houdini—one of my childhood heroes. Harry, of course, did not believe in ghosts any more than you or I do, and he spent much of his later career debunking spiritualists, mentalists, and other frauds.

Therefore, I think the reader may take this item as a complete flight of fancy: the transcript of a conversation I once had with my soul through a Parker Brothers Planchette, or Ouija Board, when I couldn't find anyone willing to play Monopoly with me.

How strange the voices that we hear when we are alone!




The Escape Artist

Why don’t we take a tour of your ribcage?
Feel free to smoke. No spitting, though. It’s rude.
Now pick a person from the rack—an image
To titillate the senses. Something nude.

That’s your companion for Eternity.
A soul-mate, if you like. He never rots.
You’ve picked a postcard—excellent. Let’s see.
He looks like that Houdini—clad in locks

From head to toe. Will he escape in Time?
Reserve your seat for Harry’s greatest feat!
While we are waiting though, we ought to dine.
There must be something in the Snack Bar. Sweet:

I thought we had a box of Raisin Bran…
You do like Raisin Bran? You look distressed.
No, the box contains no Raisin Bran,
But please inhale whatever’s there with zest.

You’ll find it’s very hard to criticize
The brute who brings the breakfast—and his rose.
Tears have a tendency to fill his eyes
When you attack him. And he breaks your nose.

Which brings us back around to the front door:
They recently installed new mirrors—steel.
We had an “incident” on the top floor
When loneliness lost all its sex-appeal.

I’m not that nuts, I guess. I’m kind of glad
They took my glasses and bricked up the sky
Before these suicides became a fad.
I think it should be difficult to die.