Dark Matter

This is how I begin my day:
staggering to the bathroom,
staggering back out.

This is how I continue my day:
sitting before the television,
bored and more than a little scared.

This is how I finish my day:
staggering to the bathroom,
staggering back to lie down and sleep.

Every day begins and ends the same way.
The continuity in between stays
pretty much the same as well.

I write more or less the same way
from day to day — marveling at the vibrancy
of the vision behind my eyelids

until I at last open my eyes
and it’s all unchanged from the previous day.
I begin to settle from ecstasy to despair.

Still and all — there is hope, of course.
There is hope for change and disruption,
even for a simple change of clothes.

A tunic would be sweet; baggy linen trousers;
perhaps a small cap to hold my head together.
Or perhaps I’d just stay naked

and worry less about who can see me.
No one cares much, after all. I’d be a spirit
and a ghost and not care, I think —

anything except what I am: beginning
and ending the same way day to day;
marking the in-between with a sob or two.

Right now, for instance? At mid-day, mid-week?
Standard dress: sweatshirt, sweat pants, socks.
That’s pretty much it; that and fear, of course.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

is a report or rumor,
according to my dictionary;

this doesn’t translate well
into other situations. Think:

have you ever used it? Or
do you use the common tongue

to say words according to
the usual custom, wiping your hands

of them as it were; brushing off
their dust and their fade? Well:

this morning, bruit this about: it was just so
that there was a full moon and clouds

scudded across its face and although
it was hard labor I took the trash outside

looking up at the huge bright disc
as I turned to go back inside; it is possible

that some neighbor saw this and whispered
to his partner upon his return to bed

that there was a black ghost of sorts looking up
at the sky out there and that he detected

my voice: not a rumor, not a
report of one — instead,

an insinuation; some incantation
to hold it all together

until I returned to the house; something
to be cherished for a moment,

a second or two — no more; indeed,
he may have forgotten it once he went back

to bed. God knows that I will not.
Some things are more than just pretty.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

You didn’t know, did you,
that every little thing you did
grew up again somewhere?

Every broken toy, every
failed letter where the stamp
fell off; every cry of joy,

each tiny bit of ecstasy
when a response came back to you
holding a single word — “yes”.

All the letters, the phone calls,
the one glance meant to show meaning
that you held a little longer

than one would expect; each
passing, knowing blink;
each tear and sob, each answer

only diffidently granted.
They all were collected;
they were planted; they held you

responsible for all of it —
even the things you didn’t know
you’d meant.

Would you have done them
differently had you known?
You will do them so differently now,

of course. You will cut down
the overgrowth of your life
and see clearly, look back on it

more or less fondly, clearly —
and then will come that time when you look back
and see the weeds sprouting.

It will not end, will it —
the growth, the regrowth,
the bushes rising from the stubble.

So: you’ll sigh. It’s morning again,
after all; daybreak over your
inadvertent garden is here again.

You will clench and unclench your fists
as you try to pull out the brambles —
and at some point, you’ll give up.

At some point you will choose
to celebrate this, the weeds growing next
to the blooms. You’ll choose;

it is promised to you. It will come
as surely as violets will return
and the moon will rise again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

“enough”
is plenty to tell us
things we dare question,
or we do, or we don’t
care much for question
or answer — whatever.

climb a mountain?
enough to get to the summit
or wherever we decide to stop.
enter the sea and decide
to settle and go down, settle again?
why not? enough. whatever.

whether i live in house
or shack or cave? enough.
adorn with velvet or fur
or plaincloth or nothing? enough.
whether we come to honorable ruin
or end naked; lying, rotting? enough.

whatever? enough to say god’s a she
or a he or something of both
or neither or doesn’t exist at all
except in the minds and mouths
of babes like us. whatever?
the god laughs at us choosing,

or stays stock still until
the god ceases existence. enough?
no choice makes a difference
until we choose one. whatever.
there is a truth in here somewhere.
god is in the details. that is enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

If you listen
you can hear
the roar and unsteady throb
of the downstairs furnace,
and then the hiss of
old-fashioned radiators.

One in particular
startles me alert — the one near
my right ear. Pops, hisses,
and then it’s gone; maybe
a slight noise, barely above
audibility, remains.

Far off, down
at the street’s end,
a train blows its horn.
It always does about this time
each day. Don’t know why.
Some rule it must follow, I think.

It’s like this
every morning, day in,
night out. Rules must
be followed, I guess. Why
I sit here with everything done
that I need to do. Why I sit here

alone, thinking of
how this world goes on and on.
Even without me it will do so,
I think. Then what will happen
is that someone will notice it until
it crumbles. Like me, it shall crumble;

as I go
so shall it go — unnoticed
by most, paid attention to by
a few, focused on by one, I trust.
Likely this will be the only poem
about it; still, I can hope.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

In a left-handed moment —

— by which I mean no harm
to those left-handed who may
read this;

merely I address
those among us who live among
those who do not need to stop to think
of their hands;

those who reach out
with a common dominant hand
and are awkward, become clumsy
when faced with a need to use the other one —

as I said,
in a left-handed moment
I step away from being normal
and skew myself sideways or
more accurately I cross a border
hitherto uncrossed and all at once
I find myself much unchanged
except for orientation;

things look different; utterly
so, brighter perhaps, more
sighted alive, less dead-eyed;

in a left-handed moment
I see things more clearly than I have
for a long time —

I am suddenly sharp again and now
I cannot rest until
I have looked at it all
and seen it with these honed eyes;
can no longer look away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T