September 2019
 Gary Glauber 
gigwords@gmail.com
Note: I am a teacher and a poet who is frustrated by politics and moved by music. I have two collections, Small Consolations (Aldrich Press) and Worth the Candle (Five Oaks Press), as well as a chapbook, Memory Meets Desire (Finishing Line Press).  Two new collections are out there, seeking publication.

Accessorizing


I won’t wear his watch.
That’s just too weird for me.
It’s a nice enough timepiece,
Movado, in fact,
black with small diamond inset,
gold chain link bracelet.
It’s not my style.
There are no numbers,
only diamond dot. 
I prefer detailed precision
of knowing minutes,
not approximations.
He and I had different tastes.
Perhaps he was more casual
about time, given the circumstances.
Anyway, he’d understand
and respect my decision.
I measure time my own ways.
 
He never knew how much
time he had left. Climbing
the Hall Place hill one morning
he passed out and was found
by the commuting buddies
who drove him daily to
the Garment Center.
Long story short, he had  
ten hours of complicated surgery,
getting a pig heart valve installed.
And thus began a second life
of coumadin, a blood thinner,
and a life where you could hear
the valve ticking out loud.
It freaked me out.
But he didn’t mind –
much better than
it not ticking, he’d kid.
They said the valve would
last fifteen years and
would require replacement,
but there was no way
he would subject
himself to that kind of
ordeal ever again.
He made that clear.
He lived on long past
that arbitrary deadline,
on borrowed time perhaps.
That might explain why
exact minutes didn’t
matter so much.
They were all part of the bonus.
 
So while I never wear
the Movado, his legacy survives
in my extensive necktie collection.
He always had an impressive selection
of ties in his closet. He was comfortable
in a tie and jacket. As a salesman,
that was his uniform – and from a
sartorial standpoint, he made
an effort at always looking good.
My mother’s family worked in tie factories.
As a kid, I thought there was a
part of the Passover seder ceremony
that required everyone to head out
to Uncle Mack’s LeSabre, where he
distributed neckties out of his trunk
until the matrons called Dayenu
and we headed back inside.
 
Dad always wore nice ties.
And eventually, so did I.
As a trade journalist, working
as corporate underling,
and eventually as a teacher,
I became known for my
ties, the striped silks, the
geometrics, the paisleys,
the subtle patterns and
designer fashion insignias,
all done up in four-in-hand
or half Windsor knots.
It’s my daily tribute
to the man who showed me
how a good tie complements
an outfit, sets you apart,
and commands respect.
Every tie I wear ties me
back to my ancestry,
an accessory that
marks time in ways
no one but me understands.


 


Renewal
 

I wear the cloak of invisibility
through guise of daily habit.
Repetition makes me fade from sight
as vigilance falls away.
 
Habit colors the present,
offers pleasant actuality,
an acceptable means of
journeying through time.
 
The illusion of control
is what poisons progress,
disappointment creating loneliness.
 
Aim, shoot, miss, alienate.
Rinse, lather, repeat.
Repeatedly.
 
But simplify.
Reduce expectations,
and gentle contentment is yours.
Accommodation is a means,
not the goal. Fill shadows
with fine fantasies,
limitless reveries,
and soon you’ll discover 
luxury of laughter
alongside new eyes
with which to see
this imperfect world.
 
Abnormality the new norm,
a reasonable defense
against strangers
calling you stranger yet. 
 
Everyone’s got a chip
on their respective shoulder.
and suddenly battle lines blur.
Who is friend, who enemy?
 
Restless jealousy compounds
chill winds that blow
through marrow
like echoes of regret.
 
My kingdom for some fresh air.
Even prisoners get to exercise
for a controlled time, right?
 
I propose to negotiate.
Yet what they want is base,
mob instincts preventing us
from achieving true freedom,
rising above desires that enslave us.
Still, what do appearances matter?
 
Details are the devil revealed;
perspective requires distance.
 
I discover a new self.
liberated, concerned,
more than eager
to share and care,
to put off the idea of escape.
I know now there’s only
one true way out.
Ironically, it comes
from within.

 

​
Blocked


According to Block Universe Theory,
our perception of time is wrong –
it blinds us to its true nature:
a four-dimensional block.
 
If all time is simultaneous,
past, future, and present,
all going on always
relative to me and my experience,
 
then let me travel back
to correct mistakes;
let me travel ahead
to learn valuable lessons,
 
let me share this moment
with you forever,
not letting pretender Time
come along to destroy it. 
 
For time is not on our side,
nor is it of the essence.
It won’t tell, it won’t march on,
nor will it heal all wounds.
 
Let us celebrate the infinity
of our limited mortality,
the strands of plural occurrence
that appear as false chronology.
 
It’s only a man-made construct
to help our feeble brains
to better understand
the inestimable unknowable:
 
in that, it’s much like a poem. 
2019 Gary Glauber 
Editor's Note:  If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF