In an instant from now
a woman will start to tell someone
her life story,
not starting at the beginning
but with a carefully chosen anecdote
she has used many times before
to set the stage for all her other stories
she has to tell
but which will have to wait
for another night.

In an instant from then
the person she has chosen to speak to
will tune out and focus on
something else, perhaps because
it is uncomfortable to sit and listen
to such things, perhaps because the story
is unbelievable, perhaps because
there is another person that makes more sense,
or because the tattoos on the teller are silly
and distracting, and the storytelling
will seem all for naught.

but in an instant from then
another person listening
as she tells the story to someone else
is going to realize how empty
this life has been
and make a silent promise
to begin to fill it
as soon as this is over.

Every instance,
a connection.  Every following instance,
a connection.  Every connection,
intended or unintended,

the destined connection.

When they come for you,
when they take you down
or in, put you in the cage
or on the ground, slap you
or tase you or gas you,
call you their names
and steal your own —

when the consequences
come down at last
it may not be comfortable
or sweet, it will not be easy,
but you must recall

that they are slaves
to something — fear or safety,
anguish or tradition,
a past or a promised future.

It will not be easy
but it is the only thing
that may save you
from doing the same to them
when the wheel finally turns.

Luck and love to those of us
who sweep the corners of our rooms
to catch the leavings and the discards
and make them into something new.

Love and luck to those who see
a moment as an eon in miniature
and then pull history from its passing
to capture what we all would otherwise forget.

Love and luck to those
swept up in words,
who know how difficult it may be
to step aside from the rushing day

and work to hold on to all that which happens
so swiftly that without love and luck
it would vanish unremarked: each morning’s small miracles,
each evening’s resignation to the fall of night.

Born already fucked
as if the poke and stroke
that begat him
had imprinted him

Born a lot of things already
Broken
and maybe evil
Perpetually behind the curve

Grown crooked
Cursed into a bad shape
His better angels locked down
Straining and failing to break out

And proud
So proud of his standing
That their straining was hidden in his ramrod posture
No sign of the struggle within

No one ever touched him
the way the angels could have
He didn’t care
and stood glowering at the doors of the church

Ready to walk in
But needing a moment to pose
before surrendering
to a knowledge

that even if this was not
to be his last stop
it was a step he needed to take
and evil-clothed as he was

he needed to take it dressed
as he had always dressed
Frightened and frightening as always
but mad proud that he had made it here

in spite of having been
born fucked
and perpetually
behind the curve

Let’s start this by saying
she’s cute in that
wow-before-all-the-alcohol-you-musta-been-something
kinda way.

She’s ranting at Mrs. Bell
who’s doing her
good-natured-suffering-because-this-one-is-going-to-buy-something-eventually bit
from behind the counter.

The Ghost Of Cutie Past is agitated,
proclaims
“I’m French, German, Indian, Irish and
Russian.  I rule this earth.
I need my vodka. I have a princess suit —
I’m sensitive!  I could be
on Oprah!  I mean, I need my vodka,
why would they do that to me?”

Mrs. Bell rolls her eyes in my direction.

All I want to do is pay my cable bill
so I can have uninterrupted access to the Internet
and all the good shows on TV,
but right now
I’m beginning to reconsider
what I call a need.

As I leave, Mrs. Bell is saying,

“I know you’re angry, honey,
but honestly, they’re a business,
what did you think they’d do?”

The answer’s lost behind me
as I walk out the door
to my car and head for home.

I’m not drunk or stoned,
not too cold,
was never pretty so I’ve lost no looks to age
and wear,
don’t have a princess suit though I bet
I could get one,
and this is one sensitive half-breed
who knows he’ll never rule the earth —
but I’ve been there, friends,
I’ve been where she was, and
I’ve been where Mrs. Bell was, too.
I’ve asked the same questions,
and given myself the same answer:

How could they do that to me?

Why won’t Oprah call me, or someone
who’ll let me talk it out
and make everything better?

What, exactly, did you expect them to do?

Maybe I should have stuck around
just a minute or two longer
and found out.
Maybe I should have handed over
one moment of sympathy for these neighbors
bound to the eternal questions —

but the TV’s waiting,
and there’s a whole world of unmet friends
waiting on this
critical message
I was born to share.

1.
In a world of six billion people,
your soul mate will be right next door.

2.
War, while horrible in the macro,
brings forth the most delicate emotions from men.

3.
The addict, finally aware of her problem,
will cry as she swallows the pills.

4.
Loved ones with cancer
ennoble all around them.

5.
Nature exists
as a foil for hubris.

6.
Things beyond this world
conform to strict rules.

7.
When love finds you,
you will be unready for it.

8.
Animals are smarter than us
in all the important ways.

9.
The force of a bullet or a bomb
can bestow the power of flight.

10.
The rich are rarely as happy
as the poor, but you will be an exception.

11.
A neat ending is to be expected,
as is a lesson.  Things don’t simply happen.

“The other night”
will be amazing
two weeks
or a month from now,

but today it’s only
a blue thread on the pillow
and an ache for more.

Marvelous time
that will not move too quickly
for fear of gently substituting
a too-eagerly desired nostalgia
for this necessary,
melancholy present, for

without today’s blues
how much less sweet
“the other night” will be
two weeks or a month
from now.

Love the West
as it’s painted.

The wind off the prairie,
the wind off the face of Crazy Horse.

The long false memory of lone wolves
under quarter-sky moons.

Movie, movie, movie.
Pulp book footing at the ford of a shallow stream.

Dirt main streets and families
stoic as props.

Something to rely on
when the spirit’s down

and that howl is a wolf
at the door.

With this small pistol
I invite you to shoot me.
You are safe from repercussions.
I will press no charges.

Shoot me in the shoulder!

Is this art?

Some ask that art be gunless,
unarmed.  Well, I am asking you
to take an arm from me
and use it to take an arm from me,
so if this is your perspective
you can console yourself
by knowing that together,
we will be making art.

This is disturbing to you?
You don’t wish to help?

Or, it does not disturb you at all
because I sound like an artist talking,
speaking figuratively?

I assure you that I’m an artist
but I will not say if I am speaking figuratively,
or rather, I leave that up to you
and your decision as to what to do
with the pistol.

I could shoot myself on stage
but then, you’d bear no part
of the performance. Or a small part only
if you felt pain or fear for me,
or for yourself as I fired.

When is pain performance?
At what point does a grimace demand applause?
These are the questions of art we face tonight.

Here is the small pistol I promised.
Perhaps you have your own to use?
Please, take mine; it’s not traceable.
I built it myself.  Learned gunsmithing
just for tonight’s show.

At what point does this become insanity,
or some form of illness? I assure you
I was sane enough to learn the new craft
with great care.  The gun will not go off
in your hand by error.  It will require
your attention to go off at all.
It is not the finished product of an insane man;
my thinking is quite well-ordered.

“Shoot me” is also not my crazy thought
but a calm invitation, a willingness to take pain
for your educational and entertainment needs.
This is compassion and sacrifice.
How am I insane?

You may stand very close, if you wish,
if it will salve your fear that you may miss
and make a lethal error.  Press the barrel
against the meat…If you like,
we can clear the room so it’s just the two of us
here, intimates in shared creation.

At what point will my pain,
vicariously thrilling at one remove,
become worthy enough of your attention
that you will assist me?

No blame will attach to your choice
no matter what you choose to do.
But I have come this far for you;
how far will you come for me?

Tags: poems, poetry, meditations