the disproportionality
of his features
made mr nothing
somewhat noticeable
he read the classics
and the grammarians
of forlorn lust
hidden behind
ailing women
there was something
distinctive about
his fascination
with mondays
and the colours
of fountain pen ink
only a daily dose
of vitamins and minerals
glucosamine sulfate
and odourless garlic
brought him down to earth
reminding that the creator
is sometimes a victim
occupying intentionally
blank pages the poet drew
all the bizarre encounters
with mr nothing’s doubts
from the perspicuous realm
of his own dictate
but once plain-spoken
mr nothing expressed
his distrust of the dubious
nature of his anatomy
as the metricist’s claim
to omnipotence
unsure of his presence
given or inferred
from phantom pains
mr nothing found himself
running amuck through
the words planted
in the short chapters
of russian novellas
he heard nothing
but buzzing tinnitus
on deteriorating vinyls
the poet left in a rack
full of syntactic echoes
the imaginary aftermath
of a passionate youth
he once planned to have
although devoid of carnality
mr nothing met a woman
inviting strangers to dinner
or maybe just looking
for a little company
he already knew them
the women never touched
always seen with someone
else’s eyes and comfortably
unspoken for that matter
they found a moment
of well-deserved quietude
in a cracked cardboard box
under the poet’s bed alive
like nothing on his bookshelf
as they found themselves
strangely at odds with
a pilcrow mark in each stanza
mr nothing finally accepted
imposed on him by the poet
temporary accommodation
with dubious identity
and a forged polling card
touching the straps attached
to the uncomfortable bunk
for the forced to take a refuge
from harsh predilections
in all innocence he wondered
if the poet ever liked him
self casually reflected
on a scrap of paper
mr nothing examined his body
the poet made him aware of
his constantly bleeding nose
hypersensitivity to sunlight
and allergy to dairy products
even forced him to visit the loo
with all the petty physiology
not befitting a lyrical character
there was nothing derogatory
about this new accent per se
however it made mr nothing
a little uncomfortable at times
maybe even embarrassed
when in respectable company
debating the intricacies of renga
he had to face indigestion
through the paper walls
of mr nothing’s place
the poet could hear
a neighbour reciting
kaddish for an atheist
and thought of his father
he had never mourned
he barely remembered
the abandoned fishing rods
and the moonshine bottles
or even that plastered hole
in the bathroom door
punched with a naked fist
for not shaking hands
and there were words
some unspoken others
shouted out or tried not to
in all souls’ day though
these were recited
by mr nothing
born out of them
mourning the death of ivan ilyich tore them
asunder when the poet noticed yawning
he stepped back from the mahogany lectern
on which someone scratched pedicabo ego
and causing a moment of consternation
among the traders of brevis in longo
he pulled his face off with mr nothing mask
aware of his grammatical inadequacy
mr nothing considered the differences
between the simple past and the present
perfect tenses as overused by the poet
preterite somehow could not capture
the consequences of his past actions
armed with a dictionary still unsure
how to face the old memory of kirrha
not to mention the endless ringing
phones in the pockets on mount meron
he listened to the bells of the cathedral
and added matzos do the shopping list
hidden pilcrow 