Unspeakable

My life is a fraud

Posing greatness, I go home to empty bed

I remember a girl

It was heavenly lying next to her

Talking, walking, being with her

Countless fissures fitted, amazing minutiae

She was the one, paradise once

Dilapidation is order of the day

Death dwells among the living

Seeped deep in floorboards, forcing hands

Death is more real than God

Death is God

Why is this night different from all other nights?

I rouse from anxious nightmares

Awakening to truer horrors

What is believable?

Her lips were the best

Scattered into tiny unrecognizable pieces

Where she licked

I didn’t realize it was all her New York City connections

I thought it was simply

Her eager tongue

One last remark

This is not poetry

Who am I to utter

Ice-cream truck organ broadcasts

Tomorrow guarantees new beginnings

To an unforgiveable forgiven past

I miss her presence

My life is a frog

Electra-Girl

Electra-girl gyrates desperately.

Daddy is away on business.

The house practically empty,

Desolate winds rattle windows,

Stomach twists with craving.

Electra-girl squeals,

“Kill Mommy! Get her out of the picture.”

Little Miss teacup wants everything just right,

When daddy gets home.                                                                         

Electra-girl vomits hairball,

shaves thighs belly armpits,

Plucks neck chin nostrils,

Applies lipstick moderately,

Puckers (finger pushes hemorrhoid in).

She denies everything.

Imagines he is showering,

She enters nude giggling big grin,

Gaze scampering between his face and genitals,

Her approaching young body edging nearer.

He hesitates standing under waterspout,

Waiting to see what she will do,

Fearing his own desire,

Knowing it is wrong so wrong.

After what seems a long time,

Mom steps in,

Eyes firing rage and sanction.

She asks her daughter, “You think you’ll win?”

Electra-girl answers without hesitation,

“Why wouldn’t I.”

No question.

Your shit stains on carpet,

Your pee stains on everything,

Your breath smells,

Odor of rotting flowers.

Smile for the camera.

Electra-girl raises arms and taunts,

 “I win! I win!

Who’s going to be my next daddy?”

A deep heavy silence follows.

She holds herself in mirrors of her past.

Paradise Brutal

It took a very long time for A to find B,
and possibly even longer for A with B to get to C,
then D shadowed, and along came easy E,
F hurried, G stumbled, and before you know it,
H pushed, I shoved, J fell, K and L bullied,

doormen and bouncers hired,
and hooked red velvet guest rope installed.
M and N showed legs and other stuff,
O accommodated, P arrived peeing and puking,
Q wandered in by mistake,

R flashed cash, S slid unscathed,
T grinned teeth, U did what?
V spread, W wowed,
and the rest, X, Y, Z,
is history.

If death is nothing, why fear it?
Is it the indifference of nothingness that disturbs the living?
All the energy and effort spent?
Unfinished business? Dead silence?
Or is it the tickle on skin of summer breeze?

Astonishing possibilities?
Privilege of existence?
There are moments when I
almost do it,
a very fragile brink, I want to

call, see, be with her so bad.
No matter what, I miss,
adore her intelligence, sense of humor, moods, body, beauty.
Why?
If death is nothing, why fear it?

Eyes perceive
group of young men approaching
momentary assumptions of danger
passes as inner fear and distrust
process high-spirited partying.

Z: “This is confusing. Put your thoughts in order.”
Y: “But there is no true order.”
Z: “Before you speak another word,
      what you got to bring to the table?
      Money? Property? Prestige?”
Y: “I offer poetry, ash drawings, new architecture.”
Z: “Lay it on the line, you faggot, or be punished!”
Y: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Z:  “Burn this dickwad on a stake,
       then eat remains.”

Fuckhole runs in pleading for dickwad’s life,
but it’s too late.
Fuckhole sits chewing charred flesh at table.
Biscuits get passed around vigorously.
No talk about death.

A: “Who’s the one?”
B: “You are, Daddy.”
A: “But I’m just a tiny force of nature.”
B: “Let’s go see about C.”
A: “Am I not enough for you?”

C: “What and where is love?
      Is it an illusion
      I strive for an impossible chance?
      When will we find each other?
      Will I feel belonging?”

You’ll Never Have This Opportunity Again

A voice inside keeps repeating,

You’ll never have this opportunity again.

Title or first line sets precedent.

Pride is my sin, even with low self-esteem.

I remember severe pain

sitting at table

with head collapsed

on folded arms.

God sat across table from me,

asking, “Who do you think you are?”

I froze, forgot how to talk.

When I looked up, the thought was gone.

I recognize pattern within myself,

where I fall prey

to someone who may or may not

take advantage of me.

I grow anxious, fearful, needing to be released.

In childhood, my younger sister ran to my side,

but years of therapy freed her of that job.

I still return to pattern, frantic, self-destructive,

worthless feeling, with no one to rescue, nurture me.

You may wonder about my allure to my ex

and other damaged women I’ve loved.

Now you know, I’m fucked-up.

Unseasoned, I scribbled, “If the peanut butter

isn’t streaked with jelly smears,

than you’re living too anal-retentive and proper a life.”

I realize my younger self wouldn’t like older self.

Enough about me, let’s talk about you.

What’s it like being a Siamese twin?

Are two heads really better than one?

When one of you finds a lover, what does the other do?

Do you look away? Close your eyes? Stare?

Who’s in charge of money?

Ok, I didn’t mean to get off on the wrong foot.

So you’re not actually a Siamese twin?

Seeing double is my problem, oh god.

Tonight my sister wrote,

“I begin to understand the mystery of life,

the moment unfolding, to harshness

and softness of just one moment, 

so dear, to haunt you for desiring more.”

The moon tonight, thin sharp slice set on spine

in western sky. A miracle, that’s what I think.

You’ll never have this opportunity again.

Bishop to Queen 4

^{Everything is such fun in the beginning,}

^{when it’s new and undiscovered.}

^{i’ll try almost anything.}

^{What is meant by almost?}

^{All these stupid sick shit roles we play,}

^{all this pretending, why?}

^{i want to believe there’s something}

^{behind the curtain}

^{besides a windowless stone wall}

^{Something inexplicable}

^{his/her majesty of everything/}

^{living/dead/never existed.}

^{William Blake said, “Either be a poet or a painter.}

^{Being both muddies audiences, and discredits one or the other.”}

^{Actually, Blake didn’t say that. i am lost.}

^{is it possible to love after what has happened?}

^{the rage, hurt, disappointment of betrayal.}

^{my ex still stalks}

^{as recently as two mornings ago,}

^{all her exaggerations, over-reactions, fury.}

^{Why so desperate to return to crime scene?}

^{An admission of her own guilt?}

^{Excessive compulsive wound licking (psychogenic alopecia)?}

^{Another excuse for getting drunk?}

^{When we waited for the elevator going down}

^{You said, “Let’s just get this over with.”}

^{i understood completely.}

^{i, who worships my own death.}

^{i, who pisses on my own grave.}

^{i, who gets bored faster than speed of light.}

^{i, who suspects killing around every corner.}

^{i, who sleeps restless.}

^{i, who worries.}

^{i, who loves women.}

^{i, who does not understand women.}

^{i, who is a woman.}

^{i, who bangs the dude in L.A. to advance my career.}

^{i, who is a nobody.}

^{i, a man with no place to stand.}

^{i, who belongs to a family of}

^{blustering flirts, flatterers,}

^{kidders, thieves.}

^{We sit at the table,}

^{monkey-wrenching hand over fist lives.}

^{Forget about the eyes.}

^{Watch the fingers.}

^{Don’t listen to the speeches.}

^{Words are intentional distractions.}

^{Where’s your wallet?}

^{Gypsies? No, we’re not gypsies,}

^{more upper-crusty, yes, very well-connected secrets.}

^{Do the names Dante, or Cervantes, or Nabokov mean anything to you?}

^{No, none of them are our kin,}

^{but we know people who know people,}

^{infidelities in very high places.}

^{All i’m saying is,}

^{once you reach a certain level,}

^{we’re all family.}

^{i will make success happen,}

^{with or without you.}

http://myemail.constantcontact.com/Michael-Reid-Rubenstein-Feb-8--Feb-23-Two-Receptions-.html?soid=1102023080608&aid=KTey8eMUay4

http://myemail.constantcontact.com/Michael-Reid-Rubenstein-Feb-8--Feb-23-Two-Receptions-.html?soid=1102023080608&aid=KTey8eMUay4

The Fainter

It was obvious how to do it

Yet I couldn’t figure it out

Until I saw it in a movie

Then it became a question,

Was I wicked enough

To pull it off?

Was I strong enough

To see it through?

In one instant, you’re alive,

Eyes darting, heart pounding,

Gushing love, throwing temper tantrums,

Collapsing under weight of existence.

In next instant, you’re dead,

Cold and lifeless, end of story.

Leaving arriving escaping

The perspiration urine smell of fear

People tell me how smart I am,

But I’m not really smart,

More like lucky, and fast runner.

I run from everything.

Did I ever tell you about the times

I’ve run straight into death’s grip,

And that son-of-a-bitch

Keeps spitting me out

One more day, year, decade.

Ok, I say, and make more drawings,

More paintings, more poems,

More stories, more lies.

Live long enough, everything you know collapses.

I know I can be terrible bitch.

I apologize.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

Dreaming of moving away

Packing only bare bones of love

And commitment to never betray

Leaving arriving escaping

I wish I were married to one woman

And we lived quiet life sustaining passion

Is sustaining passion possible?

Under weight of existence?

One more moment, hour, night,

Eyes darting, heart pounding,

Gushing love, emotional insecurities,

Making more drawings, more paintings,

More poems, more stories, more lies.

People tell me how smart I am.

I can’t figure it out.