the trauma caused me to retract

Drinking my wine a little too fast, it suddenly occurred to me that I was

alone, spiritually bankrupt and without anything to eat. Not only that, the

woman I was dating at that second was feeding me lines like: “You’re

such a man of consequence,” and “I’ve never met anyone with such

extraneous values.”

Determined to cheer myself up, I opened a chapbook of poetry entitled

“Expunging the Inner Adult”, by Bartholomew Cobbler, and came across a

poem titled,

“Break a Lovely Pill In Half in Her Coffee

She was last seen

knees to her chest

arms hugging her shins

rocking to and fro

mumbling,

‘Somebody heal me, somebody heal me…’”

I flipped the page and read another one.

“God I’m Tired

It was cold out.

Just about dusk dark.

The moon looked like open-heart surgery.

Her hand reminded me of broken glass.

Her relapse was like a sinking ship

in the Nevada desert.

Her soul was walking around in

bedroom slippers mumbling,

‘Peace and forgiveness were denied me on this earth…

let us pray.’”

I was beginning to get the hang of old Bartholomew. He really knew his

way around the English language. I think he was making a conscious

effort to…do something…make the reader feel something…incomplete,

ephemeral, alone? Make them aware of their existential pain? And what

about that last poem?

“Plump & Schvitzing

I

draw

the

line

at

swamis.”

Only 6 words, but ohh the brevity. So terse and lean, incorruptible,

uncompromising.

And then the phone rang. It was my lady.

“You’re not drinking alone again, are you?” she said.

“Absolutely not,” I said.

“What are you doing?”

“Reading some poems.”

“Wow, a sensitive guy. That’s encouraging. I should warn you up front

I’m a sexual predator.”

Several seconds went by, then she laughed. “I told you about my sense of

humor in my email,” she said.

“Yes, you did.”

“You didn’t laugh.”

“I smiled inside.”

She sighed. “Ohhh I do enjoy your humanity on a certain level.”

“Thanks.”

“So what are those poems about?”

“They’re transitory in nature.”

“God, I love the way you break things down to their most basic

fundamental concept. Read me one.”

I turned to the table of contents and looked for a provocative title.

“Shooting to Death’s Door

I was living a heightened reality,

a lyrical reality.

Nobody understood what my rhythms

were all about.

It became an ego thing.

I wasn’t a good bet, health-wise

but I still allowed myself to be seen.

I reinvented myself, mainly, to try

and get people to see me.

If they would have just allowed me to

be myself,

it would have been a lot different.”

I waited for her response.

“Done?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Well…”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t like it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s pretentious. It tries too hard to be… profound. Don’t you think so?”

“I like it.”

“What do you like about it?”

“It’s unrelenting. It provokes me.”

“To do what?”

“Think.”

“Well, whatever. I’m tired of thinking. I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”

I hung up the phone, turned to page 123, read the first few lines:

“Endings Mean Never Having to Say I Love You

I didn’t believe in romantic love.

And on the other hand, I kept falling in love.

Tears would shoot out of my face

whenever I met somebody.”

I closed the chapbook and thought; love is one of the few mysteries we can

still count on.