J. J. Steinfeld

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Theatre Life


At the breakfast table,
summer light painting our kitchen scene,
the multigrain bread perfectly toasted
the coffee smelling like a reprieve from above
the sliced grapefruit a nutritious offering,
suddenly, bursting out of a long sadness,
I declare, like an aged scholar
who has read everything by Samuel Beckett
and seen all his plays four or five times each,
we, my dearest, are two characters in a Beckett play,
please do not ignore your lines as written.

And you, fresh from a year of improvising
sporting a new hairdo and an outfit
that would make Lot's wife drool with envy
in an audacious, ungenial moment
giggle out that neither one of us
could act our way out of a paper bag
we are captives of real life, kicked off stage.

Hurt by the criticism, yet refusing to abandon my role,
I ask with dramatic conviction, bold gesticulation:
and what was Lot's wife's name?
Pouting in disappointment like an ingénue in her prime
you accuse me of being high on the minutiae of life

and then describe the dream you had last night
in which you sleep with Samuel Beckett
he was no more than thirty
before a bad-tempered pimp stabbed him in the chest on a Paris street
as I gave the worst performance of my life.
I look at the clock on the stove
it looking every bit like a stage prop to me
its late-morning declaration
screeches at me like a prompter gone mad.
Quick, darling, we have another audition this morning
in which I will play Lot and you Lot's wife.

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Say It, Don't Spray It


At a posh art opening, awash in wine, a dazzling array of cheeses,
conventional nudes adorning the walls,
you talk to a woman wearing only her ambiguity:
Don't you find clothes so pedestrian? she says,
No, you say, emphatically,
apologizing for your erection.
Say it, don't spray it, she chastises.
You recall that expression from your youth
the third or fourth date you ever went on
a young woman would say, Say it, don't spray it,
whether you were speaking, spraying, or not
you remember her for that, the repetition,
the awkward adolescent humiliation
but also because she was the first one to French kiss you
in her parents'panelled rec room
the TV on, a little louder than usual
you swallowed your gum,
considered it a small price to pay for euphoria.
Her father would shout down periodically,
Everything okay down there?
And you would come up for air and say, Yes, sir, we're watching television
and then he came downstairs, thud-thud-thudding,
a broad-shouldered, heavy-footed man with a goatee,
the first English professor you had ever met
and he had written a poem about Morpheus and Orpheus,
that he had to read to you and his daughter,
though, he prefaced, we might be a little too young to understand,
and you pulled your shirt out, to cover the stains of youthful passion,
he might be a little too old to understand.
He cleared his throat, read on and on,
your ardour stolen by his words.
What do you think? the broad-shouldered, goateed professor asked,
and in an insane act of honesty, you said you didn't care for it,
and his daughter started to cry,
and her father called you immature, unappreciative,
and pointed out that it was suppertime
and shouldn't you be heading home
and no one walked you to the door.

Yes, sir, you remember him and his poem
and you remember her, not merely for her instructive tongue,
but a few years back, sitting in a coffee shop, nibbling a muffin,
you read in a newspaper
that she had tried to kill her husband,
a sad suburban scandal,
and you thank your lucky stars
you didn't like her father's poem.

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Surely I Exaggerate and Misdiagnose and Misunderstand


Heaven is forgetfulness
Hell is full of mnemonic devices
ho-hum, ho-hum,
what has meaning anymore
(not that now is any more tattered
ethically, morally, or monetarily
than say, a hundred or a thousand years ago
except that I am caught here now
have a headache and backache and toothache
and I might mention, a touch of a soul ache
all conspiring to undermine my mind).
I return to my personal lamentation:
what has meaning anymore
except piles of money
threats of death
and a blissfulness that is seen
on the faces of patrons
in fancy restaurants
and on a wino's mid-morning smile.
Surely I exaggerate and misdiagnose and misunderstand
but I walk incessantly
rarely take medication, drink in borderline moderation,
and I pass those with pockets bulging with money
those with fear traipsing across their faces
those with smiles from succulent food
or cheap wine.
Yes, there is holiness in history
and on the street
but holiness is an accident
I argue through my aches and observations
a wrong turn when the light and directions are bad
and you mishear or fail to hear the warnings.

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Not Like Soil and Water and Air


You’ve been notified by God and your employer
that you’re not all that necessary
not like soil and water and air.
What is old, you want to say,
the earth, the sun, the galaxy
the oldest particle in existence
the oldest thought
the oldest belief
the oldest person who still thinks about sex?
This is what you were thinking, somewhat,
as you were being given the heave-ho,
the golden handshake by God is squeezed too hard
you search for images for your pain
the divine kiss-off by employer leaves you wiping your lips
you search for a towel to dry your despair.
All your life, you realize,
like being notified that your illness is more serious than first thought,
that you haven’t asked enough questions
and you vow to begin soon
as soon as you compile the list
in order of least to most profound
you clear your throat, have a sip of water
that same necessary water contemplated before
in the reach of God and your employer
and ask away, as if your life depended on the asking.

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Banner Art:
from [Multiple Exposures of the Moon], Antoine-François-Jean Claudet, 1846-52