ARS POETICA
It’s not the smoking I miss
but his mouth reciting
verses in between taking
deep swigs. The water bottle
might have tipped me off
to his neediness. Who
needs to drink that much
throughout the day? Not even
a horse, and yes, some said
he was hung. Only thing worse
than a cobalt polystyrene
bottle ordered off Amazon
might be a flask of generic
vodka, the cheapest shit
sold at the nearest bodega
past midnight. Might want to
call it more than an oral
fixation sleeved in anonymous
paper wrap. Ever wonder
how many who manage
to finish a marathon
also happen to be in AA?
Nothing against rehab
but why is it so many
relapse? At ten grand a pop,
you might want to take it
more seriously. My godfather
who turned eighty finally
decided to get both of his
knees replaced. My brother
at fifty decided to get both
of his tubes untied, wanting to
start up another family.
How many times did I have to
watch someone breathing
through a hole in their throat
and speak to me directly
in that dehumanizing electric
voice during a commercial
break before I decided
I just had to disconnect
my cable, completely unplug
from the world grid? I’m not
better than any of you
but I do know one thing: a man
without a Soul Friend is like
a body without a head,
is like a polluted lake no good
for drinking. Darling, has it
come to this? Not that I want to
say goodbye to all the addicts
in my life, some of them wearing
masks that closely resemble
my own face. Camus said
you get to own your own face
around the age of thirty-five
and I remember finding that
a little upsetting. That was
more than fifteen years ago
and at fifty plus, I can tell you
what no one wants to hear:
that it’s even more lonely
to be a head without a body
rolling around in a basket
at the height of the Revolution—
everyone else with heads on
shouting Viva la France!
I am still looking hard
for a Soul Friend, New York City
notwithstanding. Is it wrong
to want to believe in
Celtic wisdom handed down
through the centuries when I
identify as a gay ex-Mormon
Chinese-American swinger?
The Irish woman named Mary
who turned my cards over
wore a green polka dot cloak
and asked me what kind
of poetry I write, and when I
returned her volley with, well,
what kind do you read?, she
handed me a copy of O’Donohue’s
Anam Cara. Today just happens
to be my Soul Friend’s birthday.
Once again, we are the same
age, though he lives in Chicago
and no longer speaks to me.
He is like a body without a head,
I think, but what does he think,
our bodies still “commingled
in the well of dreams,” not knowing
how we really lost our minds.
