Mark Hartenbach

  Mark hartenbach's latest book is March from Pudding House publications. Postcards from the Bunker is forthcoming. He sees insanity as the 21st century equivalent to enlightenment.

 

inevitable

i'm not used to it. it still burns all the way down.

i haven't learned, after all these years, how to

navigate my way around it. i get tangled up every

damn time. i tell myself it won't happen again,

but i know it will. so i settle for making plans ahead

of time to avoid another mess. i have no faith

that it will work. i know that no matter how right

it feels-there will be a devil in the woodpile &

sugar in the gas tank. i will wrap my arms around

someone soft & it will be too tight. i'll get halfway

through another song & realize i don't know the

words. i'll happen to look up from my drink a

moment too late. i'll get home dog tired & my key

won't fit the lock. i'll pound on the door & scream

obscenities until i hear sirens. i'll wander the

streets until morning. i'll realize that i have nothing

to lose. i'll make a huge mistake, while in this

desperate state of mind. someone will visit & ask

me what i was thinking. i'll have no suitable answer.

unnoticeable

i know the world has a vested interest in every

individual. this isn't the same as empathy or

compassion. it's an educated guess that we'll

play right into its hands. the more logical the

move, the less chance of escape. the more sane

we are, the less opportunity to transcend the

guidelines. the world is obsessive-compulsive

in the strictest definition of the word. if we refuse

eternity or fate, we're weeded out. we learn to

blend in inconspicuously, or play the fool so

flawlessly that not even a cross is good enough

for us. we begin to take on the form of our

hallucinations, or learn to imitate the chaotic

moves of the wildest dancer. we reach past

the world-to something ethereal, ghostly.

something so far away that everyone loses

interest. we learn to unfold slowly & discreetly.

we become almost unnoticeable. we become

almost happy.

soundtrack to dante's inferno

i'm not interested in relics to sustain my faith

or collector's items to stimulate the economy.

i'm looking for a way out. where does one turn

when common sense continuously fails & we've

let everything ride on it. i can't remember if i've

been here forty days or forty nights. the florescence

burns constantly & my once reliable hands have

crawled into a dark corner. i complain about the

suffering, but it's the boredom that's really getting

me down. it's nothing a morphine drip wouldn't

take the edge off. i know there's a list somewhere

on the premises. if i could scratch out my name

& learn to act innocent-i might be able to sneak

over to the other side. that is, if there is another

side. maybe that's only more neon spelling out

hope.