Posted in Lies


Perhaps euphoria was to blame
it had not quite gone away and always saw goodwill.
Confidence had hoped for this position
reality wondered if experience could meet the reserve.
The dealer is generous
a good hand defeats better players.
That zero gravity feeling.
instant miraculous happiness. Euphoric.

A small stable staff
the employer a star in this town
the first new appointment in several years
visibility is high. Unproud pride doesn’t mind.

A conference, in the first quarter, of the first year
during coffee
a man with a wide smile and outstretched hand
the manager of the sister facility. Jovial eat and greet.
“Martin… Martin V – to everybody – even the wife ”
a piston rod hand shake and Schwarzenegger smile.
His surname is Dutch and van der unpronounceable
so Martin V it is. “Better than VD eh,” an elbow thumps my ribs.

he has a few
about academic pedigree and place of home
a head shaked sigh
excuses ancestry from the land’s most ridiculed city.

The chairman sheepdogs attendees back to task
“nice to meet you Martin.”
“Martin V,” a toothy invitation to familiarity
“better than Martin VD eh,” his elbow reconnects with ribs.

Within 12 months the Angel of Death
strikes the firstborn career
the sister facility has a vacancy
I am interviewed by Martin.
Plain Martin.
No V and no D.
No smile. And no previous introduction.
Insider trading furiously chases memory
recall can’t. His eyes disagree.



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.

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