Theory of the Case

There's a body at the bottom

of the stairs lying

in a pool of blood.

You call 9-1-1

and say there's been 

an accident.

Someone's fallen 

down the stairs,

don't mention

the pool of blood.

An accident?

(you let that slip out) 

All you see are a body,

some blood,

and a set of stairs.

Maybe she was pushed.

Maybe she threw herself

down the stairs.

Maybe she was brought there.

You see a body you recognize,

you see stairs

and immediately a story 

takes shape.

Like when you see a piano, 

rows of black and white keys,

you put them in order

in your mind,

think musical notes ascending 

and descending,

start hearing a familiar song

in your head. 

You see stairs

think up and down,

think stories,

and fill in the blanks

to the 9-1-1 operator;

Her body is pale, 

cold to the touch

and you remember 

what it felt like warm.

Blood is sticky.

You say, send help, please,

give your address, please,

you say, she's not breathing, 

send help soon

please,

and hang up.

The newspaper will write

'found dead'.

They will never know 

what you know.  

You will say only

what you've already said, 

please, send help,

please,

because you know 

when called they come.

They will climb the stairs

with their questions

collect evidence

they will construct

a plausible story

a theory of the case

to convince the jury

to get the verdict

they want,

they will say 

what you are capable of,

assemble witnesses to testify,

to cast doubt on your love,

your story

and you're prepared for it.

Micky Dolenz, I need to know

Last of the primates

you were chosen 

Micky Dolenz 

by the showbiz gods

the hitmakers 

the movers and shakers 

to play the drums

in a band

that didn’t really exist

and anyway

you didn’t play the drums, 

or write songs

and they made sure

you were forbidden

to try 

under contract;

but you were chosen

Micky Dolenz

to pretend

to be the drummer

in a pretend musical group

with pretend fans

LPs were made

(not by you) 

and according to plans

millions were sold

Micky Dolenz

more in ‘67 

(the summer of love)

than by the Fab Four

and Rolling Stones 

combined*

everyone knew 

and no one seemed to mind

you weren't real.

Tell me 

Micky Dolenz

what it's like 

to survive a pretend life

to hear pretend cheers

from pretend fans 

to feel pretend love

in a pretend world

and to try

to make it real.

I need to know

Micky Dolenz

how it feels to be 

the last one standing.

(*Mike Nesmith, who passed away this week, admitted that this was a lie that he spread on purpose to see how widely it would be reported in the media.)

The Weekend

Monday morning

I pull in to my spot,

the secretary

who parks next to me 

is sitting in her car. 

She's good at her job, 

organized and efficient,

parks straight.

She opens her door 

just as I exit mine,

and emerges slowly, unfolds

as if from a cocoon.

How was your weekend?

I ask, noticing right away

something is wrong.

I hurt my foot, she says,

was propped up all weekend, 

got nothing done.

She steps out daintily,

stands off-kilter for a moment,

then begins to hobble,

one foot en pointe

light as a ballet dancer's,

the other planted to the ground.

We walk together

awkwardly syncopated

I struggle to match her 

up and down tempo

and she feels it.

You go on ahead, she says,

I can't walk any faster. 

But I don't, I stay with her,

and don't ask how it happened,

the details don't matter.

Instead, I think 

of all the injustices

in the world

the inequalities, 

the homelessness and hunger.

I hope you had someone 

to cook for you this weekend

I say, in jest.

No, she says,

no one loves me,

and laughs.

How about you, she asks,

her voice weakened, 

the effort apparent as she works

to make conversation, 

how was your weekend?

Watched the big game, I answer,

on TV, 

my mind conjuring the image

of oversized brutes in battle gear

pounding each other repeatedly

ritualistically

to gain chalk-marked ground 

toward an endzone.

I see the hordes in the stands

in their colourful numbered jerseys,

fists raised,

waving banners with insignias, 

the chaotic hollering and hunger 

as if something important 

had to happen, something 

wanted desperately, 

some even praying for it,

a touchdown.

I hold the office door open

for my limping co-worker

to begin our workday

watch it squeeze shut gradually 

behind us as we enter,

and my arms 

suddenly feel weightless as wings,

my heart flutters and fills with warmth

for all the stupid people

and their misplaced passion,

all the love in the world 

stored away

waiting to be unlocked 

and ignited with a match 

like a room full of TNT.

Oh Ghislaine

Oh Ghislaine (hard g, silent h, silent s, a puzzle to pronounce) on trial, watching the stand as the little girl you once knew, now a grown woman, testifies against you, saying that the man you served needed to have sex at least three times a day, like breakfast, lunch and supper (my simile not hers). She's on the stand, remembering, conjuring the image of the man lying on his back, which echoes how he killed himself in jail with a knotted linen for a noose - no rafter and rope, no chair to stand on and kick away - did it in bed, used his prone bodyweight as a fulcrum, his neck cocked and snapped, which frankly seems physically impossible to me, but what do I know, and what does anyone know, the cameras were mysteriously turned off. Oh Ghislaine we can only speculate, like how to pronounce your name (hard g, silent h, silent s), how you lured the little girls home one by one (sometimes in groups), like the witch did to Gretel, to feed to an ogre. Oh Ghislaine, will you testify in your own defense? If you do what could you possibly say? That you were the victim? Just to hear words escape your mouth, sweetly accented words, upper-crust, seductive words, might be enough to provide a hint, a brief taste, a soupçon of the lurid spell you cast on the little girl who is testifying, the grown woman who is struggling to find the words for what she experienced. Oh Ghislaine. You are the dream of an evil man, the nightmare of a trusting child. But probably Ghislaine (hard g, silent h, silent s) you will remain hard and silent, like your name.

57

Wish me happy birthday 

I said, grinning,

call me Heinz

like the ketchup,

get it?

He looked at me balefully:

57

that's a make or break year -

I lost two close friends 

the year they turned 57,

both to cancer,

one lung,

the other pancreatic,

both worked-out daily,

athletic as thoroughbreds,

then bang

out of nowhere.

My smile dropped

to the floor

like a dish. 

I thought instantly 

about my brother, 

two years older and battling

metastatic melanoma

for the last two years,

did the quick math,

thought of  

slow death,

life oozing 

away, 

the anticipation

the anguish.

There must be 57 varieties

of cancer

or more,

a lot more.