mark hartenbach
mark hartenbach, a.k.a. marko x & saint ishmael, is quite simply one of ohio's best poets. His poems have been published in Chiron Review, Black Moon, Fuel, Rio Grande Review, Bullhead, Wormwood Review, and Kios. he knows much more than he lets on, and he lets on quite a bit.
a poem pumped so full of thorazine
it doesn’t know if it’s coming or going
1.
forgive me, but i’m operating at diminished capacity
there’s a drama unfolding here
it’s making me dizzy & nauseous
being rolled out ceremoniously with a red carpet
or laid down easy on green felt tabletops
i’m either snake-eyed sneaky or king for a day
that is, unless the boxcars are full tilt ahead
2.
i get to be all these different characters
i wouldn’t call them personas
since that would imply i have more input
into each story than i actually do
but i feel pretty much the same
no matter who i’m supposed to be
3.
i can’t keep my mouth shut
it hangs there dumbly
i have difficulty putting words together
into a coherent whole
so answering any questions is impossible
unless it’s nod one time for yes, twice for no
4.
i try to poke holes through myself
but sharp objects have been confiscated
all i’m left with is an ink pen
& a few sheets of paper
sitting on a desk that’s the only furniture
except for two beds & a nightstand separating them
it’s always cold in here
but they look at me incredulously
when i ask for a couple extra blankets
5.
since i can’t puncture the balloon
i settle for writing messages on my skin
i hide them under my clothes
they won’t check there
except on admission day
6,
if i get too confused, which is often
i slip into a restroom
& read myself backward
it’s the only privacy allowed
unless there are tiny cameras i haven’t detected
but sometimes it’s all forgotten
before i get back
to where i think it is i’m supposed to be
7.
the less said the better
takes on a whole new meaning here
i’ve become adept at waiting my turn
this is important
this goes on the ledger
though we’re not allowed access to paperwork
8.
i think i’m the king today
or maybe the second coming
i can tell by the way the lines part
when i walk through
i might be a part that’s absolutely needed
to keep everything up & running
9.
i’m definitely a transcendental icon of some sort
so i’ll enjoy it while i can
since i can’t explain it anyway
or at least breathe a sigh of relief
because one never knows
when they might be the whipping boy
i could be made to walk the gauntlet
& i shuffle along slowly
so i feel every frustration
10.
tomorrow it could all make literal sense
& i’ll be wiping blood
from my blank stare
the entire day
trying not to stain my record
a poem for our lady of perpetual emotion
1.
the incidental dialogue has found the cutting room floor
& the incidental contact screams no harm, no foul
but the tears continue to run down the alabaster
& the flock grows larger each day
2.
they claim it’s a miracle
but they’ve never seen her flush with need the way i have
3.
if were to mention this though
i’d incur the fury of the mob
so i wait it out
eventually they’ll find something else
to capture their imagination
& shrug her off as a one trick pony
4.
then she can relax
get back to her anti-depressants
& her bottle of white wine
which would be considered heretical now
since only sacramental red is allowed
but she isn’t that choosy
occasionally someone will offer her a swig
& she downs half the bottle in one shot
5.
i’m not an infidel
i just know the girl better than most
if i catch everyone sleeping
i’ll sneak her a smoke
a dragon to chase away the blues & responsibility
in case someone happens to be awake
i cross myself first
to show my reverence
so they can see i mean no disrespect
i’ll light a votive candle first
so i don’t have to fire up my zippo
6.
any authentic historical acknowledgment
has been wiped from the slate
so she could be completely reinvented
all those mama’s boys & women libbers
need a matriarchal figurehead
to fill in for that which the early editors deleted
as a a way to control those uppity chicks
to keep the power structure in place
it’s no stone that can be rolled away
7.
yet i’m the one on the defensive
i’m the blind beggar in need of a muddy face pact
i’m the horizontal wrap around
who’s stinking up the place
i’m the bombed deviant with legions that need driven out
& still i don’t qualify for a martyred sucker
8.
of course if it weren’t me
it would be somebody else
but there are no ripe apples in my knapsack
there are no vulgar diamonds behind my back
there are no scripts i’m eager to sell
9.
nevertheless i’ll continue to play this peripheral character
i’ll do my best not to draw attention to myself
& i’ll worship her in my own way
without the idolatry, the pomp & ceremony
with holes worn in my knees
& my tongue hidden firmly in my cheek
where i used to keep my prayers
a poem that aspires to be more than the sum of it’s words
“the function of the poet is not to point out ways,
but most of all to arouse longing”-hermann hesse
1.
i’m in a constant state of arousal & longing
only my mind has begun to refuse
to release this information
so instead of getting laid
i only arouse suspicion in return
2.
i leave sweet hints & loving dedications
but when i come back
they’re still lying there untouched
3.
what happened to all those late night phone calls
& soft, shy tapping on my door at indecent hours
4.
i’ve worked hard to become a better man
a more heartfelt & decent man, a saner man
but somewhere i left something out
somewhere i made a mistake
i tossed all all my prior calculations when i began
this seemed like the right thing to do
i tried to make myself into everything i was missing
5.
i was only able to love half of the time
& it was so mired in self-loathing
that i couldn’t see past myself
though that was exactly what i wanted most of all
on the flip side it was more of an arrogant gesture
than any true tenderness
6.
i continue to be hard on myself
but i can separate it
from my relationships with others
& when i’m on top of the world
in a manic state eager to get all this down
i want to share it with someone
7.
i’ve never imagined myself
as a particularly likeable man
i can’t smooze or flatter effectively
i say what’s on my mind
i don’t possess the necessary filters
to shave my conversations down
to polite company, or even modest banality
8.
but i have been loved nevertheless
& i took it for granted
as most of us do
i no longer take anything or anyone for granted
i believe i can tell what’s real, what’s important
from junk jewelry & garish accessories
extraneous dialogue & shifty contracts
or anything that’s contingent
on what do you have to offer in exchange
9.
i’m still far from where i want to be
i’m certainly no saint
but at least i’m trying
& though i shouldn’t care
i sometimes wonder if anyone’s noticed
sometimes i feel the need to point things out
in a way that’s part heavy-handed swagger
& part discreet poetic nudge
that no one would ever recognize as art
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