Dark Matter

It is a manta ray,
I think; something
like one at any rate.
Done in blackwork
on the shoulder,
lines along the bones,
the outline clean
and sharp.

I find myself
wanting to kiss it —
or rather, thinking
of myself wanting
to kiss it back in the days
when I did things like that;
as if it is behind
a clear window, just
out of reach. As if
there is an entire ocean
between us.

Knowing there is no chance
of that happening,
I put my head down
to weep, but
I can’t cry — not
a drop, not a salty
tear at all; that manta
has sailed, its wings
lazy in the sea;
me left on land
to shake it off
and move on.

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

When you recognized
the way they had passed by
your house, you were
amazed that you had never
guessed before;
you had let them go by
almost unnoticed.

Just had
a glimpse of the car
going by; just had a flash
of them in the car,
him laughing in a gray hood
and her obscured behind
the wheel.

You stopped
for one second, probably
less than that; then you
shook your head once again
as you had in the past
when they left —

where were they going?
What did they mean to
each other? Where had they put
the pitbull? Did they
have a cat or was that just
in your head? How long
would they last?

You didn’t know. It was
none of your concern.
You turned back to what was
your concern, and pretty soon
had forgotten about them
entirely, or so you thought;
they popped up from time to time
unbidden amid your anxiety
about everything else
you had going on. Became
part of it. A thread
in fabric — first golden
then blue, finally black.

When if ever
would they come back?

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

I sit up in the afternoon
with a TV show on Roswell,
New Mexico —

I was there once
and was certain that if
a UFO ever crashed there
it was because the operator
got Goddamn bored
with the flattened scenery
and fell asleep —

remembering that now
I wonder at how frightful
it was back then
and I am frightened now
as I was not back then,
now that I am old enough
to make no fun of it —

now that I know the secrets
they keep from us.

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

if you choose you
may add a post to
those you have left
before; no one but you

will read it, so
you might as well
not bother; this has been
the case with everything

you have left behind;
in fact, you won’t be recalled
by most folks who knew
you, and then those few

will go too, as will
every jotting you laid down
here, and elsewhere;
you will be lost, thank God,

in the face of everything
to come — so, the question:
why bother? the answer,
of course, is hope for

a different outcome, hoping
against hope’s known limits
that something of you survives,
even thrives a bit, in what is to come,

but — aren’t you silly to hope?
that’s the question, isn’t it?
the answer is the same:
you are silly to hope.

you do it anyway.
it remains, a smoothing
stone, minute and grinding
against all pain you hold,

a small tearing away until
it’s gone. you do it
anyway, and write down
what you you felt you

just had to get down there,
just had to. that’s hope,
wearing away all of the doubt.
pointless; you have no choice.

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

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