INSIDE THE OVAL MIRROR

May 2, 2015  :: 0 comments

Inside
the oval mirror,
the antediluvian man,

old
&
obsolete,

floats
&
swims

&
flows upstream
in

the River
of
Illusion

in
the Season of Despair
in

search
of
his real self

inside
the oval mirror

where
the water
is

foul
&
ferociously cold

like
the River Styx,
perhaps,

&
the miasma poisons
&

smothers
his shattered spirit
&

suddenly he
plummets
into

the deep
of
the dark ominous sea

destined
to
drown

&
die
an unforgiving death

in
the whirling waters
of

unreality
alone
&

bereft of his real self

but
in
a beautiful transverberation,

he lets go
&
pierces his false self

with
his heart’s yearning
&

a swirling vision
of
ecstasy

in
a
poignant moment of truth

swathed
in
silent shrieks

&
passion
&

love
&
he dies

&
is
reborn

inside
the oval mirror

editors note:

This poem inspired the story which inspired this poem – read its namesake in our Short Story Forum.

THE INVISIBLE MAN’S MOLTEN STATE OF UN-BEING: A JOURNEY TO THE CENTER OF NON-EXISTENCE

May 2, 2015  :: 0 comments

Invisible man
trapped
in
a molten state of un-being,

dissolving
&
melting

on
a
thanatognomonic journey
to
the center
of
non-existence,

who are you
&
why?

&
what is this terrible thing inside you?
My gold eyes
cut
through
your fortress,
a thick halo
of
fog,

&
capture
you,

my moribund creature,
in
your cage of swirling invisibility

&
molten state of un-being,

melting away,
dissolving

&
disintegrating.

&
now,
in
a
poignant moment of intimacy,

I
join
you
on
your perilous journey
to
the
center of non-existence.

Can I save you?
Shall I return from this voyage into the Void?

Shall we?

It’s time
to
enter
this eerie emptiness
&
discover.

It’s time.

Yet time
is
melting

&
so are we.

The Oval Mirror

January 20, 2015  :: 0 comments

On sultry August nights I often close my wet-baked eyes and see the old doc and his oval mirror in my mind’s eye. When I taste the sweat pouring down my olive face and inhale the sweltering heat, I remember how this eerie journey began. I met Dr. Jacob Lightman, the eminent psychiatrist and founder of Mirror Image Therapy more …

JANUS

featured in the poetry forum October 8, 2014  :: 0 comments

On a seething summer night, I sometimes look out my bedroom window and stare at the dark sky.

The emptiness, a void that swallows me, cuts me in half, and I face the swirling future that merges with the broken now, and with a slight turn of my head, I see the monstrous past that melted long ago in the unforgiving heat.

My skull, anointed with existential conundrums, swings back and forth like Poe’s pendulum above the ominous pit and soon, Janus appears, a phantom boy from far away.

“I remember you,” I mutter to the chimerical young man, a flimsy, diaphanous blur I barely recognize.

But I smell his sin, the foul, ferocious odor of boiled flesh, crushed bones, and gushing blood.

His ghostly voice is still soft and silky, and as sweet as Mother’s homemade apple pie with a swirl of whipped cream.

“Mother hasn’t come to see me,” he whispers interminably, oblivious of his angel dust saturated past and a cornucopia of overflowing psychosis.

His melodious voice is as velvety as the psithurism of the leaves.

He sits inside a cell in Bellevue and can’t recall how he hurled boiling water in Mother’s face, battered her head with a killer bat, and flung her out the window.

He waits for Mother in his eternal room of oblivion, while I hold the horrific memories, on a seething summer night like this, when I stare at the dark sky, and taste the toxic emptiness, and plummet into the void.

editors note:

An old end, this night’s beginning; no sleep for those who remember. – mh

The Boy Who Laughed Too Much

August 8, 2014  :: 0 comments

No one really knew him. He was just a 20-year-old kid who sat in a corner and didn’t speak; another mental case and a mute. When he arrived, one of the psychiatric aides introduced him to me. I said hello and forgot about him immediately. Then the rumors spread. I heard three of them. First, the boy swallowed a bottle …

MY FATHER’S CURSE

featured in the poetry forum June 7, 2014  :: 0 comments

The music of the soul is gone.

I do not sleep at night for I recall my father’s curse, and wonder if it’s buried in my genes, ensconced in DNA on a chromosome of doom, the invisible microcosm of my wounded brain, coming into being and emerging from the bestial womb of fate.

The music of the soul is gone.

I do not sleep at night, for I remember my father’s deaths, and wonder if I share his destiny. He died twice, and his first death took him to a desolate place-a terrible landscape, and then the island of oblivion, the final resting place of his dissolving past.

The music of the soul is gone.

I can’t forget what happened to him-to us. I watched him disappear; his dark brown eyes stared blankly into space, and I mourned for him. He was gone; his old familiar face a ghostly visage in a vacant universe, devoid of self and ancient memories.

At night, I no longer hear the music of the soul, only the thumping and pounding of my heart. I fear my father’s curse. I fear oblivion.

editors note:

We can’t shake it. Yet, still we seek a wizard with perfect power. – mh

I Do Not Exist

February 7, 2014  :: 0 comments

I do not exist. I died yesterday. I can’t recall the exact date. It doesn’t matter. A year ago, 10, 50 years ago, 1 day, yesterday, it happened. A mad metamorphosis occurred. 1 hour, 1 second, 1 nanosecond ago. Puff! I died. “Oh no,” you say. “You’re still here. I see, hear, and smell you.” “So what?” I say. “But …

HANDS

February 7, 2014  :: 0 comments

Hands that sink into the soft tomb of the desert clutch dust and sand and disappear. I watch with my mind’s eye. With despair, I see destiny unfold.

Farewell, old friend.

I sit in the tiny room in the I.C.U. and watch you drift off into nowhere with a morphine drip.

For a moment, I shut my eyes. And now, magically my arthritic hands place peacock feathers on your heart and a white rose in your hands.

Suddenly, hands in the swirling dust of the desert, buried in the sand dunes, reach upward, grab my olive hands, let go, and vanish forever.

Soon, my weary eyes return to this small suffocative space of final moments. It contains unbearable truths.

Your moribund hands, covered with old shattered skin, lie still. And now, I sit in a cold chair in this eerie room and gaze at you.

Yet when I speak, your soft breaths become heavy. So I sink into a long harrowing silence, an oval noose around my wounded soul, and wait.

Before I say goodbye, I share stories of yesterday, vignettes of joy. And perhaps, my voice soothes you now, for in-between my words, I listen to your soft, free-flowing breaths.

Goodbye, old friend, for tomorrow is the end. Yet know this. I hold you in my soul, a blue butterfly nestled in a bed of peacock feathers and white roses.

I hold you now until we meet again around the bend in the invisible universe of life everlasting and love divinely eternal.

MOSAIC

featured in the poetry forum February 7, 2014  :: 0 comments

An army of death stalkers invade the barren room behind me, crawling and creeping and brushing against the outer wall. I do not see the multicolored scorpions.

Hunched over in this tiny tomb of metamorphosis, inside the I.C.U., I gaze at you, my moribund friend. And I fall into an abyss. This is our farewell reunion.

Pale gold, brown black, dark yellow, green, and tan scorpions move surreptitiously around the soul-stealing room. I can’t see them.

I close my weary eyes. And now, the scarabs, huge black-shelled beetles emerge from a terrible nothingness and roll your spirit out of your mortal body.

I watch from the unbearable emptiness of the abyss. Is this some old punishment for man’s sin? What crime did we commit? None, I protest inside this cold room.

I sit still, my eyes shut tight, as a death mosaic of scorpions and scarabs and ghostly soul appears. This final tessellation overwhelms me.

And when I open my tearful, tired eyes, I say goodbye, old buddy, for death is the price we pay again and again for this miracle of life and the magical universe of love, lent to us for an earthly nanosecond.

editors note:

Wonderful words, written by Dr. Mel for the passing of his best friend, Charles Freundlich. May he rest! – mh

AFTER THE APOCALYPSE, I DANCE ALL NIGHT IN THE MAKE-BELIEVE BALLROOM

featured in the poetry forum November 13, 2013  :: 0 comments

After the Apocalypse, I dance all night in the Make-Believe Ballroom. The vast dance floor is a swirling vortex of almonds, and as I spin around the Circle of Thanatos, I clutch my chimerical dance partners, gaze into their empty ebony eyes, and search for a glimmer of soul.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. I rock ‘n roll and do the Stroll in front of our black-and-white TV, whirling and swirling to Dick Clark’s American Bandstand. I’m a kid again and free in the Make-Believe Ballroom until I see the grotesquerie.

Exotically hot and sizzling like Nathan’s french fries but cooling off in Coney Island waters, I become a cold corpse with a raw chilling rigor mortis, passing and slithering through merciless metamorphoses.

After the end, around the bend, I discover a baroque ballroom. I trudge across a seething threshold of deep snow and ice and enter.

Now, I peer through the thousand masks of my false self. “Hello,” I whisper as I whirl around Eternity. The susurrations of my real self murmur “Goodbye.”

After the Apocalypse, I dance all night in the Make-Believe Ballroom, caressing illusion, kissing Chimera, a nonbeing, swirling in nowhere, a once-upon-a-time genuine member of the species homo sapiens, transmogrified into a true-blue corpse, and perhaps, a meandering ghost sailing across Eternity’s dance floor searching for a glimmer of soul.

editors note:

Apocalypse when? Could be always, if still looking for that glimmer and in your dancing shoes. – mh