2006 - Vol. 3, Issue 3

"Whirlwind"

Opening the door to her
is letting in the blink
of a thousand laser lights.
She bursts.
Sucks air out of the room.
Those transient
flickers on closed eyelids,
they are her.
Nothing now exists
except her presence.
She consumes the universe
with her noisy confusion.
Air leaves.
Light diminishes.
Ears draw the blinds.
She strips you of
all that comprises
who you are.
But you are Donna Reed,
show her to your best chair,
offer refreshment, perch
on the edge of the sofa
to listen. Your smile
speaks only of welcome.
Never still for long
she rises, swings for
a hug, adjusts
her huge hanging purse
and always leaves
some item behind
she'll need returned,
as if she were marking
your territory with her spoor.
When at last the door is closed,
you shudder.
You turn on the fan
to blow away her remains.

"The Door"

The insanity of other people
is of no interest to me.
Their wounded minds
are simply mice that
scurry about.
I live where they have
created a community
in which you must have
diminished
sanity.
Inside #710
my world works in an
orderly and convenient fashion.
Obsessively neat.
Polite.
Respectful,
I lie to myself about
the milky consistent
insanity that threads
my every day.
My computer, my world.
Near the door to satisfy my
compulsion for order,
towel wedged securely
in the crack under
the door, I live.
Whether haze or clarity,
I am aware always.
My ferret runs to the
door and digs at the towel.
We know that on the other
side of that fragile barrier
my neighbor stands for long
minutes, performing the
rituals that please her.
We look at each other,
shrug and return
to our sworn duties.

"Do Not Disturb"

Never realizing
the world exists beyond
his own presence, he invades.
He whistles as he nears
my door, a courtesy he says,
so I will know who it is
and grant him entrance.
On my side of that
blessed barrier of door
I cringe at every noise,
My do not disturb signs
do not disturb him at all,
he knocks loudly anyway.
In times of insane longing
for the solitude of my own
cell, I put up sterner signs.
These he sabotages.
Pulls loose the strip of tape
holding my warning — never
knowing I can hear, from
my chair at the computer,
the tiny rasp of his nail
against wood, or the velvet
whisper of paper as it falls
over on itself.
Lover of men,
he fondles his stealth
like a bearded, thin lover.
But my awareness is tucked
deep within a netted bag
that clings to my cerebellum,
Hoarded greedily.