I Put My Ear to Yours

by Barry Blumenfeld

... let me
try again.
Everything in this
world has interrupted me....
Gas in my bowels. An ache,
stubborn in the core of my bones.
A flame crawling up the nerves in my
arm like the traveling spark from a match to
a tube of dynamite in an execrable movie. A minatory
pause in the rhythm of my heart, during which I feel it swell
with my blood; the which, in turn, pools dangerously there before
flooding out again. A thin monotonous wailing in my ears—
screams, I think, but who or what is screaming? Can
you hear that? Sssh.... I'll put my ear to
yours; listen. What do
you hear?

Dreary
weather of my
body....

A
man
like me
has little
right to walk
the surface of
earth. Yet suicide
isn't possible—it's too
decisive. I almost never do
what I can't undo. Decision makes
me sick. I waited such a long time to
fuck, for instance, because it's something
you can't take back. Once a fuck, always a

fuck.

... When I think,
voluptuously, of doing what
it has not been possible to do, one imago

beckons....

Ahh....
Hmmm....
I must pee....

Copyright © Barry Blumenfeld 2004

Analyze This

by Barry Blumenfeld

On his deathbed, the counterpane
Folded neat on top of his chin,
A forelock glued by sweat to his
Head, my friend locked pleading eyes on
Mine and tossed his frame below the
Sheets, frantic, it seemed, to escape
The inescapable. You're the
Greatest friend I ever had, I
Said, but I don't know if this is
What I meant. The words, the looks
And motions, were loaded with an
Unaccountable weight. We all—
He, I and whatever part of
Me was dreaming this—were faking
It. My own eyes, looking back from
The mirror, expressionless and
Sinister and screaming any-
Way, bear signs from another world.
There is some other world, I'd
Almost swear it, when his eyes or
Yours (you, who may or may not love
Me) roll like a doll's on its
Spindles to look away from this
One.

Copyright © Barry Blumenfeld 2004

Bad Moments

by Barry Blumenfeld

a couple of bad moments with you
I keep remembering—once, I'm
over you in the bed, looking
at you with cool, not cold, eyes—
I can feel the coolness in them,
how it hits you like some kind
of science fiction ice ray and we
both know I'm thinking about
leaving you and you cry out
don't look at me that way. my
transparency amazes me. by
way of symmetry, as those in
my trade say, in another climate,
it's your turn, and your things are
packed and we're standing in the
parlor for still one more last time,
and you wince with an irrepressible
smile—your delight to be escaping—
you're very polite about it, but
there it is—oh, that was bad.

Copyright © Barry Blumenfeld 2004

The Man Who Smelled Himself

by Barry Blumenfeld

Once a man smelled himself. Walking
Down the street, he was, busy
With no-one's beeswax but his
Own. Hmm, he thought. What's that? The
Sidewalks flowed, airless, with
Other people, odorless and
Clean. Leaves fluttered, even though
There was no breeze. (How could there
Be one, after all, given the
Atmospherics?)

It was a very unpleasant
Smell. Our man didn't like it
Very much. It didn't
Reflect well on him, or so
He was afraid. Although
Reflect was the wrong word,
Perhaps. Light and its paths,
Faculties of sight or insight
Seemed a little, well,
Inapposite. What he feared,
Our man, was to stink. Only
That.

Let's see, he thought. Or, er, sniff.
What is this I'm smelling like?
But he couldn't tell. It was
Bad, though. Repellent, even.
Redolent of death. That's it,
He thought. It's something putrid.
Our man had small experience
Of rotting things. That's why
He was so slow to grasp this
Particular nettle.

Well, where's it coming from? he
Wondered. Sorely tempted, he
Was, to jab his long nose at
His armpit, to cup his
Fingers in front of his teeth,
Even to tuck one down in the
Fold of his behind and retrieve
It, discreetly, for a whiff.
His eyes narrowed and darted
At the indifferent crowd, as
If they could hear his thoughts, as
He passed this one through the gate
Of consciousness. They couldn't,
Though. They could only smell him.
So, anyway, was he afraid.

"Excuse me, madame!" said our
Man, stepping in the way of
A woman in a dark rich
Dress. "Excuse me. But do you,
By chance, smell something? I do."
"Excuse me," the woman said,
And stepped right through him. Our
Man was far from satisfied
With this response. He didn't know
Which one of him or her or
It was the least substantial.

Next he tried a banker, or
Someone like that, a white-haired
Bowlered sort with a fat
Paunch and fobbed watch and so on,
Who, when our man repeated
His question, simply looked through
Him. A little of his
Dignity was left, thereby,
Intact.

"Do you smell me?" he asked the
Next person he met, having
Grown more desperate, hence more
Direct. A professorial
Person, who ignored him more
Pointedly, by throwing
Into the gut of our man
An elbow of the aforesaid
Shape. Then, "Do you smell me?" he
Asked a girl who was thinking
About a brassiere on a
Mannequin in the window
They were standing in front of.
Mistake. When she ignored him,
He disappeared.

Copyright © Barry Blumenfeld 2004