Peter A. Weinberg – Poetry

                1.

It would be easy to assassinate me
I do the same things at the same times most days
Scrutinized with an assassin’s close scrutiny
I’d make an easy mark

When gone it will be as though you were never here
They take all your stuff, your work see,
they put it in a box and label it by you
and send it on its way to their storage facility in Ohio

What price brilliance?
She inflames her enemies,
alienates her friends,
disgusts, baffles, and offends

We happily fall, slide, love, ride—
our lives intermittently careen
But after the break-up the whole thing seems
like a series of small-minded transactions to me

                2.

We don’t support him for what he is but for what he isn’t
He’s neither an assassin nor a thief
He rides the fine ride through streets
of purgatory, silence, sorrow and oblivion

“The roads were covered with icy snow
The men suffered greatly for
many of us were without shoes and the broken ice
lacerated our feet”

Harmless now and imprisoned the old Mohegan writes:
“Still covered with the blood of my enemies
still hot with the joys of battle, victory and vengeance
Surrounded by my brothers

I am the greatest war chief ever
But even then I can’t bring back the dear ones
I can’t recall them back from the dead
Smile on me, I’m happy and joyous in revenge”

                3.

They get older but hardly change except for their thin facades
They’re like adolescents who have withered
Her god is portrayed in that holy book as narcissistic,
misogynistic, genocidal and most certainly insane

Her audience knew they couldn’t trust their eyes
but they didn’t mind
If you like, that girl will dance just for you
If you pay her to

The small gnawing hurts of everyday
make her cringe and sear inside
He stands by her when she’s crazy
She stands by him when he’s drunk

You don’t want to fight this guy
If you hit him he likes it
If you knock him down
it just makes him mad

                4.

“To advance would be madness
To stand still the height of folly”
The sickness lasted six months and then
disappeared all by itself

It’s heart is coal black as it spins slowly through space
He self-medicated his frustrations with drink and cigars
Paced, chain smoked, retreated into stoic silence,
erratic ups and downs

“There’s the drugs that jazz me up
and the drugs that drown me down”
No progeny—this misbegotten line ends now
“When do you feel like you can play this thing?”

“Never” “Never?”
“Well, some days it feels pretty good”
Unforced glimmers of grace and well-being
come to him unbidden at the strangest of times

-November 20, 2011-