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Austin Alexis came over to my place to record some poems from his new book, The Whirlpool Bath. I’ve listened to Austin read at poetry events over the years, and wanted to give him a shout out because his presence and participation continues to keep the community of NY poets vibrant and alive. In the Vimeo below, he reads from The Whirlpool Bath. Enjoy.
Austin Alexis reads from The Whirlpool Bath
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Two poems from The Whirlpool Bath follow. Austin Alexis embodies what he writes about. His poem with the towel is as anthropomorphic as Catullus with his endearing boat, and his poem about sexual harassment is a brave and honest look at where we don’t want to look, but must look because the poet tells the truth.
The Towel Bin
where the bleached gym towels sit,
reside in pristine serenity.
Communion-wafer white
and just as pure—
until the towels are grabbed
by macho hands of body builders,
muscle boys, gym rats.
At the end of the work-out day,
one soiled towel drapes itself
over the side of a locker room bench.
Damp, even drenched. And musty.
Smudged with crotch dirt,
tired with feet smears,
it longs for Clorox
as it desires to be
its best self: starch-clean, neatly folded,
stacked in
a bin
or on
a rack,
fresh from a washer and a drier.
All it wants to do
is to resemble the souls
of the just born, those
who are blessed with new life.
Misconduct
At first, in the incomprehension of what had transpired,
I experienced the sight as if I needed to decipher
a smudged or illegible word:
the high school principal, wearing suit and tie,
exposing himself to me–
his pink penis and sizable testicles.
I was a twenty-four-years-old substitute teacher.
He was a middle-aged administrator.
I was a newbie at the school.
He was–I gathered from gossip–
a noted veteran of the institution.
My expression morphed from puzzlement to shock
due to the heated, dizzying incident.
His mug relaxed into amusement,
as if delighted with the event and my reaction to it.
Sitting at his huge oak desk,
his back facing an enormous window that opened
to a city sky of high-rises and skyscrapers,
his lap hidden by the desktop,
he watched me enter his office,
his bulldog eyes wet and bulging.
He had told me to report to him
at 3:30: the world-weary end of the school day.
“Bring folders of the students’ work to me,”
he had commanded at 8:50 that morning.
I had not known that in the open privacy,
the low-ceiling hush of his office
(with its door that automatically closed behind me),
he would sexually harass me
by rolling away from his thick wood desk
and displaying his hairy crotch.
Granted, he didn’t advance toward me;
instead, he merely sat wide-legged
in his squeaky, wheel-legged chair.
I had not known that he would find such action
grounds for a big fat grin, as a bad student
smirks after being chastised.
Yet, like a honk-nosed clown
at the conclusion of a circus act,
he projected a smile
bright as a computer screen,
while staring at my short haircut.
I had not known that my job’s activities
could alarm, rather than merely tire me.
As I wondered if his secretary would enter the room,
or a janitor, or another teacher,
I slowly stepped away from him,
simultaneously keeping my eyes taped to his face.
Then, without words, I left his chamber.
I exited the building, and for two or three hours
I departed from myself, felt
detached from an “I,” an identity,
and severed from the cityscape
I treaded through–expressionless.
All lay smudged and crosshatched
in strokes and smears of a heavy lead pencil.
In the distance: chrome towers–muzzled gods.
The near-by humping river, sluggish,
withdrew from the city’s shore,
and only a desert of decayed litter remained.
Being so young, I wasn’t aware
I should have reported the occurrence.
The happening remained a wail without words,
a silent movie, a mute sculpture.
But it has always stayed archived,
an odor permeating my psyche,
fastened to my memory’s wall,
scaring me, scarring me, reminding me
of all we suppress, and what suppression
causes us to do or not do.
I was never called back to sub at that school.
Since then, I’ve lived through the cycle of jobs
and events and years, as everyone does–
or at least as those who survive do.
Perhaps I’m over the trauma of that day.
I cannot tell.
Or maybe that episode has damaged the way I relate
to bosses, to all authority figures, real or imagined,
pastors, presidents, prime ministers—
not to mention workdays, shut doors–
and even potential lovers.
The Whirlpool Bath is published by Kelsey Books. You can check it out here:
The Whirlpool Bath
Austin Alexis is the author of the chapbooks Lovers and Drag Queens and For Lincoln & Other Poems (both from Poets Wear Prada Press), and the full-length collection Privacy Issues (Broadside Lotus Press, Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Award). His work has appeared in Rattle, Barrow Street, The Journal, Paterson Literary
