Five Poems by M.J. Arcangelini

 

 

ATTACK OF THE BRAIN ORGANOIDS

“A hundred horror films in my head.” – Charles Simic

 

In a laboratory where so many things

Of dubious value, questionable use,

And potential disaster have been developed

In the search for more marketable products,

They are growing microscopic brains,

Little globs of human tissue

Manipulated in petri dishes.

Now those little globs have surprised them

By developing, without any prompting,

Pairs of dark eyes looking

Back up the microscope

At their creators.

But don’t worry, they say,

They can’t actually see us,

These tiny brains cannot think,

They are not conscious,

They are not a threat,

At least, not yet.

 

How long before they outgrow

That petri dish, the lab, the building?

What else will they develop?

Ears? Mouths? Hands? Feet?

Free will?

 

Where is John Agar when we really need him?

 

 

DEATH AND THE OLD MEN 

 

Aging men sit around the table

like velvet dogs playing poker

thinking they have accepted death,

yet as bones become more brittle

and skin thins to parchment they begin

to acknowledge that death might

more reasonably seem preferable to

the sudden realization of the slow

disintegration of their bodies, their

minds while they are able only to

watch from the sidelines, often

medicated, numb, uncaring

helpless observers unable to

delay their own drawn-out demise

occasional flashes of rage emerge as

impotent as their shrivelling balls

anger aimed at the unknowing young

flaunting, burning through their youth

reminding the old men of their own

wasted days lodged between the ones

which were well worth living,

memories emerge from years past in

whole or in part more vivid than what

they did yesterday or that morning

while the constant assault of the new

throws them off balance and leaves

them floundering in a present of which

they are only temporary occupants. 

 

 

ABANDONED HOSPITAL

 

The broken windows of the

abandoned hospital, where

they cracked my chest and

split it open,

stare down at the weedy

parking lot and across to

the road I’m driving

like the still open, immobile

eyes of a dead man

which seem to keep asking:

what the fuck just happened?

 

ST. MARLENE DIETRICH

(after Mike James)


No one knows what she looked like toward the end. She wouldn’t
Let Schell film her, he could only record that unmistakable voice.


So we are free to imagine wrinkles, thinning hair, perhaps a bit of
Turkey neck, the regal posture bent, tortured. But why should we?


When we will always have her images: ambiguously seducing Cary Grant
In top hat and tails, Welles’ blousy Mexican gypsy, Destry’s showgirl.


Inspiration for generations of drag queens, and kings, she lives still
And always will where raspy voices sing about Falling In Love Again.


In 1975, her last tour, a long, tight, white gown slit up the left side
From ankle almost to hip, exposing one perfect leg. Standing very still.

 

 

SPIDERS AND SAINTS

re: St. Veronica Giuliani (1660-1727)

 

People say God always provides what is needed.

Thus did Saint Veronica, who manifested the

Stigmata, find the spiders to eat when she

Otherwise had no food in her confinement.

 

Renfield, in service to a different god, also

Ate spiders in his cell while he was waiting

For his master to free him. And flies.

He ate flies when he could catch them.

I can find nothing about St. Veronica

Eating flies, or anything else, during

The times of her imprisonment,

Only spiders.

 

At our catholic school, in the early 60s,

A priest came with a slide show about a

Woman who had recently died. She subsisted

For her final 13 years by consuming only

A daily communion wafer. The priest narrated

The slide show with great reverence and awe,

Knowing that only God could make that possible.

Decades after her death she was beatified

By Pope John Paul II, who, after he died,

was himself beatified, then canonized.

 

Renfield however, remains staunchly secular.

M.J. (Michael Joseph) Arcangelini was born 1952 in western Pennsylvania. He has resided in northern California since 1979. His work has been published in many magazines, online journals, over a dozen anthologies, & 6 collections, the most recent of which is “Pawning My Sins” from Luchador Press, 2022. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2018.