Reclusivity of Silence


The reclusivity of silence alone in a room;
The woman on a white pedestal is naked and posing.
I don’t remember what I said to her,
But she is in agreement
That her body and affect are
The stuff of artistry.

A picture of a naked woman,
Not that we are there yet,
But this must be the arrangement,
Sets adrift so many passions.
Mystery is the biggest one,
Where I am lost in the design itself,
My attraction,
My mind-numbing infatuation with this character study.
Just as Picasso said:
He was only and always painting himself.
I am taking a picture of everything I’ve ever wanted
While actually wanting to know if the passion is shared
And what it might mean.
I sense she is only contemplating her appointment,
How the stool might not be that comfortable,
if the image would wind up on the Internet,
And some guy like me would find it.
She’s thinking about lunch,
Her studies,
Her boyfriend,
The cause of art,
The purpose of her life.
I don’t think that women ever
Think of themselves as objects of beauty,
As the purpose for living that men attribute to them.
But, they clearly stand for something,
Since I have no other thoughts.

I think love is like that.


I woke, as you know after the turn-around, from Saturday night to Sunday morning and having finished Sunday, the end of my week, and I thought of you because we share a “flight or fight” work mode. I remember distinctly you having to rush to get to work and then the long hours and deadlines. I felt for you; I knew what you felt, not wholly, but in part, and I didn’t want to get in your way because I knew it was like straw on the camel’s back. But, I admired you and I loved your apartment, the way you dressed, your gorgeous body and face, your sweetness, your tender heart, your mind, the books and love of literature we shared. That’s what I love about you besides the fact that I was in love with you. You are a tender mist of holographic image and energy and I watch you in my mind from time to time and I recognize these moments as the beauty in life and the truth that I shall forever hold as the purpose of being. Every other distraction falls away. I will remain at a distance because in my mode, I am a eunuch, impotent, unable to indulge attraction and desire. We live on the edge of the world at a desk, where the papers keep piling up and we cannot attend to them gracefully but eventually with horror as our lives tick with moments of fun that harbors caution and we are never really free and our conversations with others, whom we trust are little excursions of expressive openings, daisies through cement. And I just know this is love. Never is it as great as the love an African-American shared or shares with his people, which is twisted beyond recognition, as soulful, as forged as steel in the molten metal of both poverty and enslavement because they were brought here as slaves and generally reminded of their station for no reason other than that they cannot change the color of their skin, born to something they cannot control. Theirs will always be far greater than our suffering, but we can glimpse it and love. But, it is almost impossible to do so because it speaks of a suffering we could never endure and it embarrasses me. So, I see you in this light. I see you also in your black panties and nothing else as you stood in your living room with the lights on and I thought of the neighbors, who must be able to see you and I said nothing. I think love is like that and I miss you.


The Real You

The Real You

I want the real you,
Not this avatar,
Where my thoughts are sucked.
This voice of yours
That speaks of fragility and hurt,
I want the real you
Because I am a man.

You say the real you is what you want
But in doing so you’d be destroyed.
There are things about you
That you cannot say
Or they would destroy the timidity you display.

You have your demons.
I say you could not be demonic
With that trembling voice.

I respect your need to hide things
You’ve left unknown.
I had to look up “heathen-”
Someone who does not believe in God,
Is uncivilized.

You are honest
And civilized.
I have no right to press you,
Gone too far.

No one is perfect;
I am that example.
But your beauty is unflawed
By your kindness,
The imperfections you have hidden
Are waved.

And yes, what appears your tolerance
Is visible and virtuous.
I am not blind to this,
Only ambitious.

Perhaps, it is your downfall
To be willing to see the beauty
In another,
Who is not so beautiful at all.
But, just as Nancy Reagan said,
You can always say, “No,”
Or in this case, “NO!”

The windfall is true.
Your perfection is my sin.



Part 1

Narcisse, hello.”

“Hi. How are you?”

“Fine, and you?”

“Fine. I haven’t seen you.”

“Yes, I’ve been busy.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I figured you got back together with your man, or someone.”

“Yes, someone. Anyway, how are you?”

“Fine. Nothing much is going on, still waiting.”

“OK. Maybe we should get together, have lunch or something?”


“OK, well, let me know. It’s been so hot.”

“Yes, it has.”

“OK, good to see you.”

“You too! Be happy you deserve that.”

“Thank you.”

“OK, goodbye.”

Part 2

“You smile like I have insulted you.”

“Yes, when we saw each other, you put your head down.”

“Yes, you were just far enough away that I couldn’t see your facial reactions, and so rather than acknowledge you, I turned. I didn’t mean to insult you. I just can’t see. I haven’t been sleeping. I am very stressed. I apologize.”

“No problem. Thank you for letting me know.”

Part 3

“I’d like to tell you what is on my mind.”

“OK, I am standing here. Go ahead.”

“Well, I saw you and I said to myself: Now, that’s a lady I could make love to permanently. Well, OK, for a long time, because you are perfectly wrought.”

“OK, is that it?”

“No, and then I thought to myself eventually however, you would loose your shape, become someone I might not want to sleep with and then what? What would we talk about? By the way, who are you? I mean, who are you really beneath this perfectly lovely exterior, in case I wasn’t deluded about having the chance to be with you?”

“I am just a pretty girl. I have no other interests. You were correct in making that assumption. But, sadly I am very superficial so you were correct. I am not interested. I don’t know what we’d talk about. You are just interested in fu*king and I would just want to do my nails and I wouldn’t want you to mess with my hair. Besides, sex wouldn’t be so dirty. I mean unclean and I want to stay clean. I am waiting for someone, a knight in shining armor. Oh well.”

“Yes, oh well, sorry I bothered you.”

“No, that’s OK. I get that a lot.”

“Yes, I am sure you are right. It must be incessant. And you already know you are beautiful.”


“But, may I ask you?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“Do you see a man who you could imagine fu*king until you were both old and then you have to start having a conversation?”

“Yes, and I think he’s just a bad boy and he’ll just fu*k me and walk away.”

“I know what you mean. Nobody just talks anymore. Everybody just wants to fu*k. That seems to be the only thing missing; well at least for me.”

“Yes, I agree.”