Repost for connection to the recent poem, “Persona II.”

“““““““““““““““““““““““““`

Part of me steps aside
and another part of me
steps forward
to make a name for itself.

It says:
I am the ocean,
I cover everything that is deep
and swallow everything
that dares me…no, wait:
I’m the harbor, the destination,
the notch in the edge of the ocean.
No, sorry:
I’m the slave ship arriving,
carrying stolen anguish.  No,
that’s wrong: I’m the trader
waiting to sell the pain of others.
Again, sorry: I’m the new owner
of what shouldn’t be owned at all.
Ugh, wrong, wrong again: I’m
the cargo, the village of origin,
the buyer’s tag, the auction block,
the chain, the whip,
the eyes leaning on the crutch
of the North Star…

A part of me tosses in bed for hours
listening to this until
another part of me steps up
to elbow that first liar aside
and say:

I’m the feather on the plains,
the oil full of ghost trees,
blood on sand I’ve never seen,
the dirty songster in an alley
glimpsed once from a cab window
and then reimagined
to find room for my moral
at the end of his song.

No, says another part of me,
then tosses pennies at the others
to drive them back long enough
for a chance to say:

I am sponge enough
to have sopped up
everything all my lovers
ever told me.

I’m the mask
that gives me the freedom
to let them call themselves “cunt”
as I misquote them.
I am above reproach
when I put myself
in their mouths.

Closer,
says the sleeping part of me,
admitting that he’s indeed been listening
to all of this.

That part of me
becomes awake enough then
to say:

I’m stupid
and exhausted
from division.
I’m groggy
at this hour
but trying to figure out
who deputized me
to speak on behalf
of what has been screaming unheard
for eons. Why wasn’t it ever enough
that they could speak for themselves?
It’s like everyone and everything
is asleep and I’m an alarm clock
banging out “I, I, I, I, I, I, I…”
on behalf of full-on daylight
that ought to be enough but isn’t,
chattering
until I’m shut off
with a backhand slap
to the panic button.

Yes, that’s it,
that’s the answer,
I tell myself.

The part of me that has been
so fitfully drowsing
for so long
rolls back over,
while another part of me
smooths my hair, tucks me back in,
lullabies me into distant dreams.

When the breathing slows
and becomes regular,
that part of me looks up and says,

I am
the dummy on an insistent knee
with a hand up my back
and a substitute voice.

Look as close as you want,
you’ll never see those other lips move.

That part of me
will accept your applause
while the rest of me is put back in my box
to sleep.

In the way a house where a murder happened
is sometimes hated and left empty for months
after, though the wood and walls

were not guilty of anything
and merely contained it, though the house
is not a murderer or a murder,

I let a person
step into me after careful consideration
and listening to them for a long while,

let them use my body and voice to speak
since I had an audience
and they did not, but might

once they stepped back out,
when people saw what I had done
they called me a liar and shunned me,

for ritual demands a sacrifice
and confusion
leads to black magic,

but that is what a shaman does
or a poet sometimes does, this comes
with the title, this dislike

is honorable, who told you
you were supposed to be beloved
all the time, it was never something

I was promised, nothing I expected,
and while there’s pain, in the end
a voice was well-heard though it was not mine,

and is the hearing not enough
to make the sacrifice worthwhile?
The Spirit wants only hearing, after all.

You replace the phone
on its cradle.

In one suddenly torn second —
an instant
pulled open violently —
the filling has fallen out
and accustomed comfort
has gone flat, crumpled
like a bag on the floor.

Shut down.
It’s all right to sob
and wish for things
to be different.
Pull together
a pile of soft blankets
and sleep.
It’s all you can do
until morning —

that, and shut off the phone.
No need for another ripping blow
tonight.

the hatred felt
by those of a certain ilk
is understandable
if you step back
and think of a world
where everything was promised
to all of a certain ilk
and some had it delivered
while others kept chasing it
but all believed in it

the hatred felt
by those of a certain ilk
is understandable
when you step back and see
that what they were promised
were stolen goods
and they never knew that or
chose to ignore it
so when those who were robbed
finally got a chance to point out
what was taken
it is understandable that those
in unlawful possession
might be pissed

the hatred felt
by those of a certain ilk
is understandable
if you step back
and see how that anger
is misdirected by the original thieves
away from themselves
and toward those now demanding
some consideration for their losses

those of a certain ilk
hate for a cause
written on gauze
a bandage over the thin skin
of deep wounds
whose source they will not imagine
because of the horror
they will be forced to own
if they do

the hatred felt
by those of a certain ilk
is understandable
even pitiable
forgivable to a nearby point
but not excusable
when it is maintained
by willful ignorance
and a stubborn love
of apparently useful
myth

if you want to hate
the haters
be sure of them
before you begin
for if you see only
the front
you will miss
those of a certain ilk
standing behind them
smiling at you
all knowing
and certain of the power
that derives
from hate

Your opinion seemed right to you
and then
shit started. Soon,
it happened:

Nazi,
says the anonymous poster,
you’re a
Nazi
for suggesting such a thing.

By now, you’ve forgotten what you actually said.

Nazi,
you respond,
you’re the
Nazi
for bringing
Nazis
into this.  Trying to scare me
into shutting up by invoking
Nazis,
that’s a
Nazi
thing to do.

Nazi Nazi!
chimes in a
supporter of your enemy
(and what was this about again?)

Nazi! Nazi Nazi Nazi!
NAZI!

Damn, but it feels good
to bring them up in connection
with anything at all —
baseball card futures, Area 51,
that Palin woman, hairstyles,
the latest incarnation of garage rock.

Damn, it feels good
to hear that marching
in the world outside.
Almost like your blood
demands it from you.
Almost like it doesn’t matter
where you were headed
as long as you eventually
get to a point

where that word can roll off your outstretched fingers.

Dawn hasn’t warmed us
for months.  It might as well
have stayed dark all winter
for all the credit we gave the sun
for coming up, for if there’s no warmth
in sunlight, why have it?  That’s been
the prevailing opinion this year,
as it is every year.  Even as the days
have gotten longer,
we have continued to complain.

The hyacinths
know better, as always,
and have been employing
that incremental heat
for their own ends
for quite a while now,
trusting in
the inevitability of what was to come. 
Today, or yesterday, they broke through
beside the walk.

Their sudden arrival tells us
that it’s time for spring at last,
and all at once mornings feel downright
balmy.  We’re stupid this way,
forgetting every winter
that spring will come,
and that we’ll be surprised
when it happens.

Thank God
for the hyacinths giving us a heads up,
or we’d look even dumber
with our mouths hanging open
a few weeks from now
when, as always,
everything else pops.

Everywhere I go
I carry two tinfoil wrappers
twisted shut,

each one the size of
a pack of gum,
each one holding part of

a collection
rendered in miniature,
a collection of all my friends.

The dead ones
in the right hand pocket,
the live ones in my left.  The dead ones

on my favored side,
the live ones carried offhand
as a backup.

When I need
to say something deep
I take a packet out

and open it, pop one,
freshen my speech
with another voice.

When I’m done,
I carefully pull that friend
from my tongue

and rewrap
for future use.  None of them
have ever complained

so I have to believe
it’s ok with them
that I use them this way.

The dead ones
have more time free of the pocket.
I think it’s good for them

to get out and be heard
even if their flavor
often darkens my words.

They at least
make me feel good.  The live ones
don’t come out as often

as they are frequently
unruly and crack my voice
a bit.  We can speak for ourselves

and be known that way,
they grumble. Therefore
I sometimes

take them all out at once,
put them all in my mouth
and shut up while they

talk to me from within.  I’m
kept informed that way, and so
think to honor them

by giving my full, sour attention
to their tastes.  I still prefer to
let the dead ones work for me while running

my tongue over my teeth
and recalling
what the live ones have taught me,

what they continue to teach me.
But I will not shift them
to the right hand pocket —

too risky.
The dead ones arm me better
with their settled opinions

that are sharper for having had
greater use.  It’s been suggested that
I mix the two, but I don’t know what

my reliably dead friends
who adore me would say
if they were to hear from those who know me now.

I don’t even know you, they might say.
I’m not sure I ever did.  And I’d hate that.
So I keep them tightly wrapped

and close at hand, the known quantity
always in easy,
subconscious reach.

Dead friends in the right hand pocket —
quick to come to my rescue
and make my words clean and fresh

with their voices frozen and cool
as breath mints.
Live ones in my left —

astringents, bitter favors
to be taken sparingly
for fear I might have to speak the truth.