in a closet
there is a dog
and a light
the dog can’t turn on the light
and he’s howling
closed the door on himself
with his antics
and his better senses
aren’t helping right now
that’s a dog for you
and it’s why we love them
with their wet noses
full of scent
and their dependent eyes
full only with us
The wind was hard yesterday
and small bunches of leaves fell,
the same ones which had burned with early scarlet
and stood out amid the stubborn green
of their fellows.
I awaken late
having expected early construction racket,
but nothing is going on.
Last night I promised myself
a good day of work
with some time to myself
beforehand, and it was not to be.
I apologize to the silent dawn
that failed to wake me; I was not
open to your efforts.
Ashes to mud:
gray bottom sheen
inside the neglected firepit.
Dust to demand:
the words “WASH ME”
on the car stand out
more insistently today.
Ignoring for a moment
how much I have yet to accomplish,
I watch the asphalt trucks
and yellow vested men
at last moving into place,
hurrying to complete the street
before the snows arrive.
Indigo messages
under the headlines
on the front page
suggest that these people
are doing all this
to get you. You look for
their reptile signatures
in the shadows behind
public figures and
the subtext of their
platitudes, refusing to believe
they are human at heart
and incapable of long term
concerted action in the face of
their own greed and clumsy grasp
of the twists of fate. In their hands
fate never twists at all
and they keep a sure grip on its path.
They must be in cahoots
with one another and their
mutual interests must coincide
with their desire to see us caged
or rotten. You track them
from electronic safe houses,
small coffee shops, the corner of
your bedroom. It’s comforting
to have a place to focus
your concern when the world
is collapsing, when you are removed
from agency. Having an agent to fear
makes the fear manageable, and as you post
your own indigo messages to others
who know the partial score you know,
you become one with the reptile overlords:
you’re the disloyal opposition,
the necessary distraction from chaos
and entropy,
as complicit in your own death and decay
as those you claim to despise.
Too damn early
for no coffee in the house
and all this heavy equipment
tearing up the street —
although it’ll be smoother
once they’re done, and the snowplows
will glide more quietly over the blacktop
in a month or so with fewer rough patches
in the pavement,
and I’ll be able to come home at night
with fewer teeth shaking loose in my head
every time I hit a pothole,
and in general the whole place will look
and feel more like someone cares
for this neighborhood —
still, this morning I’d trade the future
for two more hours of sleep
in the heart of
the decrepit status quo…
which
of course
is what makes me
an all-American.
Things are much more predictable
indoors. Read a book and chuckle
to yourself. Television on, everything else
off. You’ll be happy in a limited way.
Outdoors, there are bugs
and wind and such. My father
used to talk about “the ghost in the forest”
which was his name for two limbs
rubbing together and calling out
in a clear squeak, for instance. Read
or write a book
and slap away mosquitoes, there’s no TV,
no radio, and if you bring a flute
or guitar or something with you
sap may fall on it and you’ll scurry
back to the house to clean it off.
It’s not easy to believe in a spirit out there
asking for your attention, or rather
not asking, simply taking it, or perhaps
it’s doing neither, simply speaking
because it can speak. How contemptuous
it must be of our rich inner lives,
or perhaps it feels nothing at all for us,
notices us not at all, which is worse.
Some years ago I stopped to put out a brush fire
near a state park folks around here call Purgatory.
Someone had likely tossed a cigarette out of a car window
and the banks along the road were red and rolling
so I pulled a blanket from my trunk to snuff it,
but it wouldn’t stay snuffed.
The grass burned and
the fire hissed and snapped alive at the edges
and reignited when I wasn’t looking, or even when I was,
and the grass could have cared less about ideas like “motive,”
or “carelessness,” or “heroic action.” It just burned,
curling and crisping and vanishing into black threads
of itself as the flames passed. The oak leaves
curled up and toasted brown above the fire.
I came home and thought about nothing else
for a few hours, then settled back into my chair
and wrote about it all. It’s fair to say
the grass grew back regardless of my writing,
though I’m sure “fair” is another word
the ghost in the forest
wouldn’t recognize.
I will go back to that place
and see if there’s a trace of any of this having happened,
now that I’ve written of it again from the safety
of the living room,
see if it made a difference, see if
I should bother to keep writing.
There’s not nearly enough
Wolf in me. Not enough
ferocity, not enough
pack loyalty, not enough
startle response and care
for the world’s savagery
and bounty.
And as for Coyote, the smaller cousin,
the Trickster dog of dream and myth —
no, I’ve searched, and no bone of mine
holds that holy canine within.
In the search, I found
the spirit animal I leak from my pores
when fear slides into the bedroom
and reposes at my feet:
a snail or slug, unsure of which but a cold slimer,
an afterthought drip from the God
who gave up on me for mammal’s ways
and instead said: this one will know
how progress is inexorable but excruciating,
how its trail can be followed
back, slowly, to its source; will understand
the nature of small and unnoticed lives
and the damage that can be done in the dark,
as ravaging as any drama and howling attack.
There are thanks to be offered, I’m sure,
but the longing for more overwhelms me now,
and I have no mouth or throat
to scream for a change.
All I can do
is crawl and hope no weight from above
hovers nearby.
Woke up wanting to prove a point
about the way people think,
did it by realizing
that needing to prove that point
(that too much self-esteem is a problem,
that those of us empowered to feel so special
are in fact less connected to the needs of others
and in fact hurt the world)
is a symptom of the problem
because I believed that people would listen to the point
if only I would say it, and only
if I said it.
So,
I made waffles instead —
and they were the best waffles
anyone has ever made.
rain against the windows
all night
after a break in the rain
that was against the windows
all day
earlier a gray sky
had cleared long enough
for the full moon
to silver the land
and then came
the return of the rain
and now I can’t get back to sleep
since across the way
two are apparently
making love
while holding their positions
against the rain
against the windows
I can’t see them
but anyyone awake can hear them
so the window must be open
and they must be getting wet
that must be
where the moon went
to stay dry and keep doing
its appointed work
of illuminating hope
A glass of Scotch whisky
always makes me happy
and a little sick
at the same time,
like most things
that make me happy do;
no unalloyed moments for me,
drunk on what makes me strong.
You can’t trust
that you truly know anything
when you only know what others tell you
and your senses just bring you particles
to be rearranged and interpreted
based on what others have told you.
So you strip it all away
and go sit on a beach
in a different stolen shell,
but with no pretense this time.
Everyone knows the story
of how you’ll just discard this one
once you’ve outgrown it
and you’ll find another one
and you’ll keep repeating the cycle
until you’re consumed
or stepped on
or broken. There’s no such thing
as a death by anything other
than natural causes in this life.
If you’re lucky
you’ll get picked up
and tossed in a case
and provided with painted shells
while people chuckle at the googly eyes
and the stripes you’ve been provided.
It may look sad from out there
beyond the glass,
but you, you sneaky little machine
of outward deceit and self-awareness,
you’re delighted to be amusing them
without having to pretend
that’s what you really are at heart.
you’ve embedded
tiny angels
within the keepsakes
you carry everywhere
to inhabit wallet
key chain
and jewelry
peace
through possession
called out to cheer you
with a touch of your fingers
but you weary of it
at night
lie naked in bed
lay your stuff aside
and sleep in poverty
without your usual fear
but if you rise
after midnight
disturbed by
something
it may be those angels
cutting loose
noisy and free
the manacles
that have bound them to your safety
have been unlocked
by your lack of attention
since you’re already up
you might as well try
to stay awake
without having your stuff around
to protect you
see if you can recapture
the peace you had
when you had nothing
in your sleep
and your dreams
only happens when I’m not looking
sounds oddly comforting,
as if some beloved pet was simply
chewing on a favorite toy
but all the pets are accounted for
when it happens again
something going about its business
with no concern for me
construction in the street can’t explain it
I’ve checked for mice and there’s no sign of them
and I know how the house settles — this
is different
and again, nothing to be seen in there
when I try to sneak up on it
so
what could be so calm
and thoughtful as to live beside me
without my being aware of it
having approved it
or having brought it here
it’s going to drive me crazy
until I know
so I’ll wait
do nothing
remain still
all day if necessary
until I have learned the truth
Dark Matter 