When I was a small boy I spent a lot of time feeling I was invisible and pretending I was invisible. Our household was pleasant, I was not an abused child, but nevertheless invisibility interested me greatly. My invisible self was my second self, what I later called in a book of poems, my Daimon. The poem below is from that collection, which is titled "The Invisible Boy." That collection came out in 1998 with The Writer's Voice in Tampa Florida. I think I would like to present a few more of the poems from that book in future entries here.
If I wanted to become invisible I held my breath the way Tarzan did in the movies: slipping beneath the surface of the world, leaving no trace as he swam under water, his knife between his teeth. By taking a breath and holding it, I could make room inside myself and enter, pulling my presence along When my mother introduced me to her friends, I stared at my shoes or the glass eyes on the faces Standing there in too large slacks, my brother's hand-me-down sport coat, and a necktie of my father's, I slowly dissolved into a forested landscape, with a grey mist enveloping the valley, under which those little foxes and I slipped away into the forest.
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