Agencies and Vacancies

by Mark Katrinak

There’s something wanting loose. One’s roots lose grip.

Whatever ground’s connected to your CPU

becomes exposed. Eroding shores at sea,

sun slipping into blue by end of day,

and every day what sails is still at large,

the skyline swallows, Caspian now rouge,

rouge tinting tangerine as far as the eye can see,

the mind pulled loose, source disconnecting you,

some fiendish centrifuge in charge and roots—

now waterless—are naked, useless, damned.

Image credit: Norbert Tóthon Unsplash

                                       *

Rain, rain and heavy rain, an avalanche

disperses mud and rocks, the gathering

of sixteen thousand stones descending rapidly

above the random passersby, the manifest

momentum wire mesh of nets can’t catch,

or let alone slow to stoppage, that all

that built up into who you were is gone,

stones hammering the winding road below

like hail upon the nearly ripened crops—

you feel a famine building up inside.

Who was it that you were? What had disturbed

those puzzle pieces? The tree the hurricane

displaced exposes all its roots, so leaf-

less now, so naked and alone. Huge hole,

that darkness in the ground, a barricade

contrived, that others may not harm themselves

by falling in, find home where you were brought to trial,

the breezes stirring over casualties.

  Those dangling roots are useless without ground.

  Lay out not who you were but who you are.

                                    *

The mirrors cast my gaze, bewildered stares

barely recognize. Whoever guards

the premises has snuck another in,

soft steps at first upon the carpeting,

then creaking on the stairs, and faraway

a knocking, irritation in the attic.

Now memory chimes in, negatives brought

to the forefront of the mind, a Ferris wheel

revolving round, but will they ever stop

to drop them off into my arms again?

Revolving doors long after business hours

continue sweeping floors, the concourse where

there isn’t time for second thoughts, just avenues,

impatient buses, hurried passersby,

the evening turning into hail and rain...

a stranger getting off the elevator,

a visitor who hears ahead of time

the lonely tenor of the offices,

the movements secretaries cannot hear,

suspicions, though, that you and I discern.

These heightened levels of anxiety

with rising, record-setting frequencies...

sudden disturbances amongst the birds,

a heightened hurriedness of squirrels, scream

of headline news that steals us from the sun...

the simplest of things—you touching me,

my hand upon your strings, the moistened lips

engaging in our trumpeting—are left

bereft, corrupted like a ministry,

birds now unsure of whether they can fly.

Why these impediments to prayer, brief

meditations, informal ponderings,     

a little you and me? The hurricane

that stirred the elements below the surfaces

went somewhere else to die. But we remain

a troubled water, stirred so violently,

our thoughts can rarely settle back to where

they were; a little goldfish bowl with just

enough to eat, to think about, a clear

expanse as evening creeps into the room.

And why so troublesome returning here?

The roads we travelled by have disappeared—

the bridge collapsed, is irreparable—

the inconvenient truths by which we live

our lives... it takes extraordinary effort

merely to be at home again. We need

to know it’s true: the resonance which rules,

iniquitous, is coming to a peak—

atmospheric pressure’s building, the birds

resigned to trees that lie beyond the visible.

***

Mark Katrinak

Mark Katrinak has a chapbook, “Blue Meridian,” forthcoming from Kelsay Books. He has had poems published in Bayou, Southwestern American Literature, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Lullwater Review, Pinyon, The Opiate, Pensive, Poetry for Mental Health, and other literary publications. Originally from Cleveland, Ohio, Mark is now a resident of Golden Valley, AZ. When not working for a mental health agency, he enjoys birds, cats, fine wine, and spending time with his family.