Peter A. Weinberg – Poetry

                1.

Forged narratives, collages, corruptions
The sex was great, our fiercely stoned pleasures,
elusive, exciting, excessive—
but it wasn’t enough—we couldn’t last
My false friend, my hypocrite, my liar
Sad ex-wife, sad mother, sad lover

Don’t be naïve,
the past wasn’t innocent,
the present’s not pristine
They only spoke the language of their murderers—
they knew no other,
the German of their fathers and brothers

She can be steely—
if she has to be
Scant solace there
To make these dark perversions
and hold these dark thoughts around secrecy,
detachment, melancholia

He wore a good quality overcoat,
a dark hat and carried that familiar old walking stick
with the ivory handle
He looked, for him, almost elegant on the day his father,
that violent, thick-headed bastard, died of a heart attack
while drinking his usual glass of morning wine

                2.

He advertised his unoriginal ideas in an original way
Operational details were for others— propaganda was his alone
Carelessness and indifference in everyday affairs
Muddleheaded, confused, he often didn’t think clearly
Still, everyone had to hear his fiercely held views
He received no mail or parcels, even for Christmas

What is disturbing those birds?
Garbage in the reeds—deflated birthday balloons mostly—
Home to wild boars and nauseous eagles,
radioactive, scarred bears and
atomic pine trees that grow like bushes
I don’t remember who I was then, where to go, or who I was with

33 years old, thickset, round chunky face,
low forehead, small eyes, fleshy lips
His mouth was always open, thick red neck
When he left, he left no forwarding address and neglected to pay the rent
“People say they like mavericks, but they don’t”
That’s what he said

Harsh vigor, stern melancholy
seriousness without intelligence
Passionate, abrasive, smart but inconsistent—
she can’t achieve reflective depth or delicacy of judgment
She’d use pretend emotions to bring to life
that happy fervor, that suppressed gaiety of her nature

                3.

This time together is precious
Before his music stops he desperately holds onto every penny,
determined not to be buried alone in the rain like Mozart,
in some unmarked pauper’s grave
Only brutes directly enjoy the violence of revenge—
the violence his music expressed

The construction worker stopped working—laid off
Couldn’t pay me back, wouldn’t say so and insisted,
as a matter of pride, that I deposit his check
which unsurprisingly bounced the next day
His daughter would have been embarrassed if he couldn’t pay
I have a daughter so I happily lent him the money

It isn’t that she has more on her conscience
than I know or believe—
It’s that she has more on her conscience
than I care to acknowledge or discuss
When love dies another world soul closes its eyes
Just one more thing to regret and mourn

“At home, our parents spoke Russian to each other
We spoke Yiddish to them and English among ourselves”
He wasn’t an overly intelligent thug, he was just a thug who made his fortune
through shady deals in Turkey and an opportune marriage to a rich heiress
What matters: secrecy, detachment, struggle, survival, victory—
This comes naturally to him and permeates his being

-October 18, 2011-