Donald Marsh is a published poet and novelist. Two collections, The Clouds of Magellan and An Ice Cream Communion, were published by Caminito Press. An Ice Cream Communion was nominated for The Pushcart Prize. His novel, The Stone Humpers, was published by Delacorte Press.

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Dancin' Man (Added 2/10/98)

In the silvered steamed 
bathroom morning mirror
pause to study my genitals
reflected as a glum old roue
with pubic hair toupee, 
Fagin penis nose,
balls depraved jowls sagging sadly.

Groin needs cheering up. 
Arms spread bolero, I dance.
Crotch becomes Muppet fierce
as I vamp the testicular tango,
the penis pavane and time-step,
becomes bouncy as I do
Strike Up the high stepping Band.

Groin is grinning toothless
as it hootchy-kootchys into
shorts and pants,
bounding snugmerry as I do
Falling-Off-The-Log
Walk-The-Dog-Bojangles
out of the mirror
into the day.

Three Manifestations (Added 2/10/98)

                    1

My fear is a knuckle-faced dwarf
who so loves to skewer people
with spit and icepick words,
pinning them exposed to the day
for all to see and snicker.

My dwarf fear is so tired and lonely, 
knowing, sooner or later, someone
will sneak attack, hurling acid words. 
So he sits erect in a too big chair,
legs straight ahead with ping-pong eyes.

                     2

My fear is a grinning young boy
so happy to be walking hands in pockets,
swaggering manly in lampoon.
I want him to walk so easy forever, 
genial mocking man walk, walking   
with spine arched,
so wanting to be like me, like you.
Boy fear walking knowing 
he will slump and fail, 
at some point in anguish
sell out for as little 
as a smile and nod.
                     
                      3

Finally my fear is an old woman
sitting hands folded in lap
with the light fading to night.
Sits resigned, knowing that what
has happened will happen again.
So the she of me sits 
admitting the letting go of fear
being the final fear.
Nothing left but to bless
dwarf and boy and woman
in the slowly so softly
settling silence.

Things Falling Apart

Barn with swaybacked beam
just
sits down
pachyderm,
folds fetal
in splinter
ricks.

Man 
on a lunch-hour street
stops,
slowly
chews the air.
Knows
he has lost 
faith.
Clatters down on crosswalk,
severed
puppet strings.

Things falling apart
to
make
a kaleidoscopic
compost pile,
a fervent heating,
a somnambulant turning,
an arising of
the primal voice
saying
I am I want I dare.