Wednesday, August 7, 2024

Loneliness

 

Loneliness is an orphaned lab monkey

Raised by the surrogate doll it clings to

For warmth and companionship

While a troop of white-coated

Researchers hide behind

One-way mirrors

Scribing notes.

 

Loneliness offers

A simple choice:

Embrace something broken

Or grasp at empty air.

 

Loneliness suspects

This life is a simulation,

One that violates all

Ethical standards for 

Behavioral studies.

In a word, it is cruel.

In a second, sadistic.

 

But this Loneliness is yours.

You may hear voices

In your head but at least 

They know you’re here.

 

Loneliness is neither

New nor modern.

It’s as old as Empire,

As ancient as the Flood,

The original Sumerian, not

The Hebrew knockoff.

 

Loneliness is now an epidemic,

An epidemic, like the 1919 flu where

They stacked bodies like winter wood

In snow-strewn Scandinavia,

Or Covid-19 in New York City 

Where they rolled in train cars

Of artificial ice.

 

Loneliness is a community dying

From alcohol poisoning or withdrawal,

From opioids or other recreational drugs,

From gunshot wounds, malicious or self-inflicted,

Or from general stupidity,

Fast or slow.

 

Is Loneliness the key?

Or just a fashionable hill

Where we plant our banner

And make our final stand

Like the 7th Cavalry at Little Bighorn,

Or the Foreign Legion at Dien Bien Phu?

 

Loneliness is the adventure of a lifetime.

 

Loneliness is isolation, not a phase of the pandemic.

Loneliness does not have its calls returned for months.

Loneliness remembers it took as many days for someone to

Track down her son and daughter as she spent in an ICU.

Loneliness quietly closes the final chapter of that book whose

Denouement had begun a decade earlier.

 

Loneliness has friends

Who send a gift card

For wine or cognac,

Your low-dose adult poison of choice,

Not sensing the tragicomic irony

Of how she died.

 

Loneliness is knowing

They wouldn’t have

Done anything

Different had you

Been face-to-face.

 

Well, maybe, Loneliness

Is precisely that.

 

But Loneliness waits 

To catch up with you

Years later like a friend

At a favorite coffee shop. 

 

Loneliness is the day

You are released

From the hospital,

When, unlike her, you

Got to walk out the door,

And were driven home,

Not gurnied to

Cold storage until

Someone could dig up

Your next of kin.

 

Loneliness is your two best friends

Standing by the door,

Wondering where you’ve been,

Waiting to curl up against you,

Like years before when they

Kept you alive through

Another raging infection

Of isolation.

 

When Loneliness told other friends

Eight years earlier that all you

Could do was lie in bed for weeks

Watching stupid movies,

Their only response was,

Which ones?

 

Much younger, Loneliness revealed

A four to seven trump card hand

Of an ACEs high home life

Only to receive ten-mile stares

With no words of comfort,

Much less actions, before

Responsible adults turned away

Squeamish and uncomfortable.

 

Loneliness knows that

If few read that narrative

In poetry or prose,

Fewer still

Understood it.

 

Loneliness realizes

Iteration by iteration,

On the third or fourth

Descending spiral,

That it’s turtles

All the way down.

 

Loneliness is a conversation killer,

Approaching people at a party

And having them suddenly

Grow silent and drift away.

 

Loneliness is shut down

From talking about anything

Personal in no uncertain terms

By the people nearest to you.

 

Loneliness is solitude and silence

Becoming your closest friends,

Imaginary like the ones who

Disappeared.

 

Loneliness has

No tribe, 

No clan, 

No wingman at your back.

Maybe if you’d been

A better kid,

A better comrade,

A better confidant,

You wouldn’t be so alone.

 

Loneliness spends its days

Moderating expectations,

Predicting with precision 

Each brief communication 

And insincere offer.

 

Loneliness hears

We should do

Lunch,

Dinner,

Grab that beer

You can no longer drink,

Catch up.

 

Loneliness learns to

Echo back the same tone,

Yes, yes we should,

Just let me know.

 

Loneliness is eventually informed,

I’m sorry, the number

You have reached

Is no longer in service.

Please hang up

And dial again.

 

Loneliness says

If only you could

Text or TikTok.

Ain’t no one

Got time for that

Archaic email.

 

Loneliness just stops

Right there, at time.

Loneliness makes time 

For what it values.

Loneliness always reaches out

To stay in touch,

 

Loneliness is no shit,

There you were,

Fresh off a near divorce,

Sick and alone,

With the people who cared most

Either half a state away,

Or you’d never met

Face-to-face.

 

Loneliness is stones

Piled upon your chest,

Crushing your internal organs,

Heart, lungs, liver, spleen,

Each crying out,

More weight.

 

Loneliness admonishes you,

Try to be less sick.

 

Loneliness is neither

Sick nor well.

Loneliness reminds you,

You will never leave

This place unless

Feet first.

 

Loneliness says

It’s not me, it’s you.

That in this life we all

Get what we deserve,

A three-course meal

Of broken glass.

Bon appétit!

 

But Loneliness doesn’t forget

To tip its server.

 

Loneliness is the irony

That you shouldn’t be

Lonely at all,

At least by any modern,

Psychological advice.

 

Loneliness is reading

A chapter on mental health

Advising that you focus

Less on résumé values,

More on eulogy values.

 

But Loneliness asks

The obvious question,

What if no one’s there

To read the script?

 

No matter,

Loneliness replies,

You’re already dead,

Outside as well as in.

 

Then Loneliness advises you,

At least buy a new suit

So you’re a good-looking corpse,

Even if the service is private

And closed-casket because

Somewhere near the end 

You misplaced

Half your mind.

 

Then Loneliness confides in you,

As long as you focus on the future,

You can never die, no matter how

Much you seek that wish fulfillment.

No matter how much you

Deny or bargain,

You eventually arrive

At acceptance.

 

And that’s the one and only day

You and Loneliness

Likely make

Other plans.

 

 

© 2024 Edward P. Morgan III

Wednesday, September 20, 2023

Miss Mara

 

There is an awkward moment

When you are staying with friends

Near the end of your visit that

They begin discussing their

Schedule for the coming days,

Making plans without you.

 

But you are not ready to

Return to ordinary time, you have

Your own schedule to keep,

More steps along your journey.

 

And yet,

Too soon,

Life moves on,

Relentless.

 

Conversations at night

Quiet to a whisper,

A telltale in the trees,

An echo of the wind.

 

(Samarra)

 

As we transition

From four

To three,

From them

To her,

 

You transition

From a life of

Your own to

Someone else’s

Memory.

 


© 2023 Edward P. Morgan III

Monday, August 7, 2023

Old Friends


 

Think you can turn back time

With a message?

A comment?

A like?

 

A card?

A phone call?

A surprise visit?

It wouldn’t matter.

 

Too much water’s passed

Beneath that bridge,

Too much current’s eroded

Its structure.

 

Marked now only by a swirling eddy,

An impression of what once stood,

The span, the supports

All swept away, out to sea

 

With a ship that

Sailed long ago,

Christened My

Best Friend Forever,

 

Reflagged under

A jack of convenience,

Sold and renamed

A Man I Used to Know.

 

A familiar face in the grocery store,

A curbside conversation,

Both our eyes darting

Left and right, brown and hazel

 

Seeking the slightest spark of

Recognition of the person before.

Moon Dog? Moogie?

Is that you? You still in there?

 

Until we each return to the

South Sea isolation of

Our shipwrecked existence,

Marooned with our native wives,

 

With another sea story to share,

Another hey, remember when,

Another no shit there I was,

Another castaway tale,

 

Hoarded like doubloons

Marked on an X-stained memory map,

Buried beneath the ever-shifting sands of

Our salt-washed lives.

 

 

© 2023 Edward P. Morgan III

Wednesday, June 21, 2023

Dream

 

 

 

(read these lines before the midlife of the night)

 

 

I shouldn’t have had that third glass of Armagnac

In my profession we don’t

Get much to celebrate

 

I was drunk sitting

On the steps talking

To the kids

 

Perhaps he’d never left

Or he’d made it home before

Me, locked out

 

Next thing I knew we were back

By the water, the bay and Bayshore Drive

The writer arguing with the scientist

 

That worked-out comment

These on-air reinforcements

Those hidden objectives in Russia

 

Then him alone outside

Retelling the story

Repeating the first line

 

(an echo)

A third glass of Armagnac?

Not after all this wine

 

A scientist

A leader blunted

A maybe-no

 

Roommates with no personal

Pronouns breaking into an apartment

He followed her inside

 

They were arguing

That’s all they did now

But theirs was a good argument

 

Whose fetus was more beautiful?

Hers was perfect

A whale and an octopus

 

Her makeup had that glamorous

Cried-on-ness

She’d grown that extra tube

 

Then she let slip

She’d had an

Affair

 

I was glad I didn’t live

Here anymore but

 

I kind of missed it

 

 

© 2023 Edward P. Morgan III

Thursday, February 16, 2023

Death Note

I am dying.

That’s the story.

The final line

Unheard,

Unremembered.

Should I speak it,

I shall cease

To exist.

 

 

© 2023 Edward P. Morgan III


 

Friday, 2 a.m.

The loyal,

The lonely,

The desperate,

The depressed,

 

They must be slumming

To hang around with me,

 

The d-leaguer,

The deep diver,

The freakshow.

 

I am the end in friendship,

The liar in familiar,

The con in confidence.

 

I don’t belong here, yet

I have nowhere else to be.

 

But I won’t be here long.

 

Time,

That tick-tock heartbeat,

That broken metronome in my chest,

Once an ancient enemy,

Now my newfound friend.

 

 

© 2023 Edward P. Morgan III


 

Guardian

If I die in violence,

As my mother foretold,

It’s because I was not born;

 

I was created.

 

Carved from supple greenwood,

Bent by shattered bone,

Knapped with flinty knowledge,

 

I am taut as twisted sinew drawn

To the echo of good and evil,

Held quivering like sin.

 

Until I am finally loosed upon this world,

Sent speeding toward temptation

Poised unwisely on its head.

 

Piercing the mirror of soulless beauty,

Lodging between rib and breast,

Blowing agony into ashen memories

With each angry, sticky breath.

 

The bruised fruit

Of two wounded trees

Fallen beyond their

War-torn garden wall.

 

Blinded by a glimpse of Eden,

My vision never to return.

 

 

© 2023 Edward P. Morgan III