prose poems/ mark hartenbach

1.
i looked long enough that i forgot to breathe. it no longer
matters if it was love or irretrievably beautiful. it was
undeniably human. it’s no longer important if it was
spurred by dopamine or expectations or literary aspirations.
i no longer remembered the physical blow. i never
understood completely why i continued to move toward
it so many times. i do recall why i walked away though.
i don’t remember how anger could rotate into other
emotional readings. the longing & the solitude began to
become larger than the sum of their parts, even though
they were more than a world away from one another.
i hear an empathetic reply. i hear repetitious apologies. i
find myself surprised yet again at my reaction. i still need
surprised, & i need something to help me forget in
the meantime.


2.
i paused for a moment before my laugh broke the distance.
i laid one on top of the other until they all toppled over. i
bridged the night with a mason jar of homemade wine &
& cribbed poetry. you said i was different. it was all in the
way you said it of course. i understood immediately &
accepted your judgment. she told me that you said i was
enigmatic. that was even better—if it was true. she must
have realized at some point that she was driving me right
into your arms. maybe it was subconscious to begin with.
maybe it was as calculated as her faked orgasms &
elaborate maybelline touches. i slide my hand under the
table so i could touch your leg. the room was crowded with
conversation, but i could hear your breathing quicken.
i wanted to sweep the table clean. i wanted to glide into
you right there. i wanted everyone to watch. you asked if
i’d like to stop over that evening. but i had to be home that
night. she would know immediately where time had went.
i didn’t want to go home. i never should have left.





i don’t care if it hurts/i want to have control
i want a perfect body/i want a perfect soul
- radiohead



3.
i wanted to drive fifteen hours to see you again, though
there was no guarantee you’d be there. i’d promised two
years ago that i would save my money so i could make the
trip. i meant it. but i was weak. i spent most of the money
in the land of nod. i wanted to drive all night to see you.
i had my duffle bag packed & hidden away. but i had a
two-toned problem under the hood. it was an adventure
every time i pulled out. four bald tires, a window that
wouldn’t go up & no reverse. i wanted to drive all night
& be there by the next afternoon. but i was living with
someone else & besides, i had no driver’s license. i knew
she’d report me missing immediately. i’d be pulled over
& cited. they’d tow my car away. i’d have to hitchhike
home with no excuse. i’d have to find a way to get the
car back. i’d have another heavy fine i couldn’t pay &
no more transportation for work when the cast on my arm
came off. i’d have a furious girlfriend waiting, threatening
to leave. i’d have to dodge her blows. of course i wouldn’t
blame her. i’d be guilty yet again. i wanted to drive all night,
fifteen hours straight through, to somewhere that no
longer existed.




4.
i ask her to try on the wedding dress. she’s understandably
hesitant. after all, i haven’t made anything that could
construed as i commitment. she might think i’m a freak.
& she might be right—but not tonight. she asks where
it came from. i say i’m not sure. she rolls her eyes &
throws it back in my face. she says she’s not wearing
someone else’s promise. i tell her it’s not like that—i
only wanted to see how it looked on you. i know you’d
look so beautiful. i can imagine, but i need more. she says
that i’m looking in the wrong place. then she screams—
i’m not playing any games tonight to satisfy you. i can
understand her angrer. i could have predicted her
response. but i had to ask anyway. she walks quickly
toward the door. i won’t try to stop her. i pick up the
dress & fold it carefully.



5.
i did recall a few nights earlier, but when you asked for
details i said i could only remember bits & pieces. i had
a selective memory. i didn’t want to give away too much.
i was standing on the front porch. it had a wooden swing
long enough for two people. you don’t see them much
anymore. you were on the other side of the doorway.
the screen door was propped against my shoulder. the
living room was dark & the porch light was out also.
the same vinyl played continuously. “i think we’re alone
now.” this was your way of asking me to stay. you would
have never asked me flat out. i said i really couldn’t stay.
you didn’t argue with me. you never argued with me. but
you looked away with tears in your eyes. i let the screen
door slam & walked away without looking back. i don’t
recall feeling anything at the time. it’s strange—because
i feel so much now.




love is a dog from hell-charles bukowski



6.
i asked you to walk downtown with me to a friend’s place
to party. you didn’t know any of them, & looking back i
wish i hadn’t either. but you knew the situation & you didn’t
partake. you didn’t want to sit in silence while i got
ripped. then you’d have to try to drag me back up the hill.
you told me that you wanted to spend the evening with me.
you & i alone. i wanted you, but there was no way you
wouldn’t eventually lose. when it came to getting high,
you would always be the second choice. i think you were
just beginning to realize this, or maybe you knew it all
along, but cared enough to stay. i was eighteen & the
hooks were in deep by then. i remember that upstairs
apartment where we’d meet. i was never sure who it
belonged to. i have conflicting memories that we had
little time because your parents might return, or it was
your sister’s apartment & all was cool. maybe i never
asked. i don’t recall your being overly concerned about it.
we would listen to the rolling stones greatest hits over &
over, while stretched across the couch. it was always on
the couch. you were still in school. a couple years younger
than i was. you were beautiful. you were quiet & seemingly
unaware of your beauty & the power you held. this pulled
me closer. i did most of the talking, though you would
whisper something to me after we’d kiss. how could i
forget what it was? but i do remember how it made me feel.
this is more important. i said i would go alone then. i
left you behind, standing in my garage that served as a
place to crash & burn. you didn’t say anything. you didn’t
come after me. when i came back you were gone. i never
saw you again.




7.
i remember all the leg room in the backseat of your father’s
black cadillac. you used to let me drive it, even though i was
cinched 99% of the time. i didn’t tell you i had no driver’s
license. i think you would have let me drive it anyway. i’d
tried to get a driver’s license but there a discrepancy between
my birth certificate & my social security card that i couldn’t
get straightened out. so i drove for years without one. i’d
already been cited twice for open container (but never dui),
running a red light, no tail lights & of course driving without
a valid license. i wanted to make it with you so badly that
night, as only a nineteen year old can want. you said you
did to. your eyes would glaze over when you did. we were
parked near a streetlight in front of your sister’s place where
we drank every night. you confessed you’d had an abortion
a few months before & you needed to be careful. i acted hurt.
i found this routine to be effective. i never tried being honest
with anyone until many years later. love & war right? i said i had
to leave. i don’t remember my excuse. it was probably a lie.
i was seeing someone else also. she got off at ten.



8.
i stare into an almost empty wine bottle. i see a woman’s
face next to mine. she’s crying & i have a smirk on my
face. or maybe it’s the other way around. i rotate the bottle
slowly. i’m looking for a different ending this time. i
might be better off finishing what’s left. i’m getting tired,
yet the faces are coming as fast as ever. of course, this
doesn’t insure that they’ll be there when i wake up. i
need to ask their names. i need to write these names down.
i need to remember their numbers. i may need to start
with my own. there is important information that’s been
pushed aside for facts that no longer pertain to my present
situation. i passed the memory part of my latest psychological
drill. at least the short term memory section. i line up the
bottle up with the others & try to concentrate. i find that
whatever i don’t accidentally knock over, will only fall down
on its own anyway.




there is always some madness in love-nietzsche



9.
i had a room in a boarding house in a college town no
bigger than a broom closest. but it was all i could afford.
i was coming off a teenage divorce & had to steal lunch
meat from the 7-11 & steaks from the walk in freezer
where i worked part-time. it had a single bed, dresser &
small metal box that served as a place to hang clothes.
there was just enough space to stand if you stood very
still. i shared the kitchen & two bathrooms with about
ten other guys. they were all students. but i wasn’t. they
were all older than me. i had no idea at the time that i was
spiraling out. you were a waitress where i worked. you
used to wrap joints in napkins & tape them to my time
card unless it was friday. i never worried they would be
discovered. you just laughed. i didn’t have a car. my ex-wife
had taken it along with everything else. you would sometimes
drive me home from afternoon shift. if it was warm i’d ride
a rickety three-speed bicycle that someone had given me.
i’d usually ride the university bus to work. i always
told the drivers that i left my wallet at home & they’d nod
their head to get on. we’d go up to my room & smoke
& talk into the morning with our backs against the wall,
& legs dangling over the side. you had almost as long as
legs as i did. you were so much fun to hang out with. but
i thought of you as another buddy. it didn’t seem possible
to me at that time that i could be so open with a girlfriend.
one night you turned & kissed me. you said you wanted
to stay the night. i whored around a lot then & never said no.
but that night i said i was sorry—there was someone else.
i can’t remember who it was.





give me absolute control/over every living soul
& lie beside me baby/that’s an order
-leonard cohen


10.
i couldn’t tell you who was playing that night. i don’t
remember much from that period—especially on weekends.
i was usually operating at diminished capacity, or mood
management as i liked to call it. it was warm & we walked
slowly up the grassy hillside, talking quietly, until we came
to a dark green bench at the top. you’d had a friend call me
& set us up. you never seemed shy so much as detached. i
can’t recall being with anyone that was so unemotional. we
were too close of a fit. we spent time together, but you
never showed enthusiasm for anything, including me.
maybe because i spoke with a biting sarcasm most of
the time. you would lie there passively & let me slide your
jeans & panties off without saying a word. you’d never look
at me the entire time. it went on like this until one night
on your basement rug. you said you had to have me now.
it caught me off guard. you lived there with your parents,
but they never came downstairs. earlier that evening we’d
sat with the volume off the tv. some old black & white film
that i’d made up all the dialogue for. i was trying to make
you laugh. you said it was irritating. you couldn’t hear the
music. it was neil young’s “after the goldrush.” i had hair
halfway down my back. you asked me not to get it cut.



the only abnormality is the incapacity to love-anais nin



11.
i wanted to warn you about the cobwebs & non sequiturs.
but it came out wrong. this led to confusion. you told me
that you’d leave me if i didn’t take my medications. you
threatened me with endless well-constructed arguments.
i became even further confused. but you said that you
hoped it would clarify your position. i pleaded love. i told
her—i did it for you baby. didn’t you believe me, or did
you purposely ignore me? i’m sure that i stressed this fact.
it may have come out in broken pieces. but i know you’re
sharp enough to put these fragments together if you wanted
to. they fell out of my mouth when i least expected them.
it may not have been eloquent or graceful, but there was
some poetry in there. i tried not to indulge myself, so that
i’d have more to give to you. but i knew i couldn’t mention
this. i knew that you would take my suffering personally.



12.
we took turns spelling out love on each other’s bare
backs with slow fingers that couldn’t lie. i remember all
those words. but i left them somewhere. maybe it happened
during the last indictment. maybe i left them high in the air
to be sliced by lifesaving blades. maybe they got mixed in
with the cynicism & broken hearts. maybe they were gone
long before all the drama began. i may have used them in
another story. if i did i apologize. i might have given them
to someone else that i felt needed them more than i did.
i find this difficult to imagine though. i remember falling
through the ice. i remember you putting your face against
the cold. i remember being pulled lifeless from my drink
by a beautiful stranger. i recall trading stories with her &
buying her a drink. it was the least i could do.