J.J. STEINFELD

Fiction writer, poet, and playwright J. J. Steinfeld lives on Prince Edward Island, where he is patiently waiting for Godot’s arrival and a phone call from Kafka. While waiting, he has published sixteen books, including Our Hero in the Cradle of Confederation (Novel, Pottersfield Press), Disturbing Identities (Stories, Ekstasis Editions), Should the Word Hell Be Capitalized? (Stories, Gaspereau Press), Anton Chekhov Was Never in Charlottetown (Stories, Gaspereau Press), Would You Hide Me? (Stories, Gaspereau Press), An Affection for Precipices (Poetry, Serengeti Press), Misshapenness (Poetry, Ekstasis Editions), Identity Dreams and Memory Sounds (Poetry, Ekstasis Editions), and Madhouses in Heaven, Castles in Hell (Stories, Ekstasis Editions). His short stories and poems have appeared in numerous periodicals and anthologies internationally, and over forty of his one-act plays and a handful of full-length plays have been performed in Canada and the United States.

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              Time Travel and Praying


Tiring of time travel
despairing of praying
on a day with little wisdom
yet clouds as perfectly shaped
as ancient guilt and future regret
a nondescript theologian ponders
the perplexing differences between
deterministic and nondeterminstic 
existence and nonexistence
sense and nonsense
when a sudden vision of an airbrushed  Hell 
disrupts the pondering
then the nondescript theologian 
rushes to an intersection
strangled with tourists and shoppers
crazed supplicants and childish devotees
the now disrupted nondescript theologian
does an awkward yet elaborate dance
in front of the gathered crowd
no applause, little questioning
goes home crestfallen and stares into
a mirror, repeatedly replaced
broken too many times to count
seven years times seven years
times seven years or more bad luck
and resumes both time travel
and praying simultaneously.



 Pretend You Are Not Pretending


a slight noise, a quiver of light,
you are stopped in the street
nothing remarkable
nothing sinister you can readily define
their uniforms are without insignias 
or adornment whatsoever
simply freshly laundered uniforms
the colour of old photographs
yet you are frightened
for a response is required
a measurement of your life’s worth
details from the last year or two
of sleight of hand and artifice
you fear the evaluation  
but silence is an even deeper denial

to last another night
to be allowed to walk away
as if nothing had happened
as if there is no distant or near past
as if words can escort you to safety
you concoct a life with some substance
hope your breaths shimmer something memorable
argue your scream has import
rationalize your departure as for the best
pretend you are not pretending




          I Intend to Dream Another Captivity


The two interrogators jostled for position
like two old-time comics trying to save their careers
all over who would in what order
ask me questions that were
more circuitous than a perfect maze
more convoluted than an imperfect prayer.

First the one then the second
screeched, You-better-answer-or-else
you’ll never see your loved ones again,
their threats copycat clichés.

The old-time comics become shoddy B-movie actors
mangling their lines, getting the accents wrong
like winter weather in the middle of summer:
Why are you here?
Where are your papers?
Who sent you?

I stopped listening
be they comedians or inept actors
I had other images to contemplate
another life to invent
besides, I intend to dream
another captivity
this one is more tedious
than even the last.