Allen Brafman

out to sea

ringing in my sleep
wakes me to ringing
in my room—the phone

in Pirates Cove
Pusser’s rum and coconut cream
some fruit juice—don’t
forget the nutmeg—
they call it pain killer
(one more for the road please)
perfumes in my mouth pirates
dangling from chandeliers
dancing in treetops
sway in my room in my sleep

queen angelfish yellow tails
schools of blue tang
and damselfish rock beauties
occasional triggerfish locals
call them old wives
ripple from the lobby into the bar
through an open
window back out to sea
they’re swimming in my bed floating
in and out of my eyes

they’re hiding in the laundry
in every corner
of my room
and I have yet to hear from you
another pain killer
my wake-up call

and the ringing the ringing
the ringing never stops

forever drifting
drifting off to sea

my long-lost wake-up call
Listen!
can’t you see
I’m drowning in my sleep

 

in the beginning the end

from paper bags
with other thirsty men
he drank in dark inviting alleys
only derelicts and dimwits
careless enough to enter—
ragged mops the handles gone
broken bottles headless dolls
stinking alleys their filthy
gaping jaws inviting
only in how uninviting—
foolish young man I imagined
community with worn-out toothless men
safety in fluid numbers

from these men
this dark ballet flowing
I thought surely
I will learn
to find my own bearing

swallow after swallow
with little conversation
every time the same
with blind ceremony
the bottle
having become light
comes out clumsy
from that wrinkled bag
everyone can see the last
corner’s about to be sucked dry

out of itself into itself
everything would change
again the same
like some parlor trick
we’d all disappear
scatter
into deeper invisibility
to come together soon
never soon enough
in the next some
distant nearby alley
rancid storefront doorway
familiar unfamiliar
faces measure
one another
once upon a time
an empty bottle
inside a shriveled
paper bag
waiting to be filled
waiting to be emptied
to be filled

 

Allen Brafman lives near Prospect Park where he walks the meadows and the last forest in Brooklyn. writing in his head or speaking into a voice recorder is how he tries to figure things out. sometimes, he succeeds; more often than not, he does not succeed. but he is stubborn and probably a bit foolish, so he persists.