a bucket of heavy
considerations
filled greasy drop
upon greasy drop
over a lifetime
is not easily carried
and rarely emptied

once one is in love
however
the burden may be eased
considerably

either by
cooperation

or

through the dumping
of that swill
upon the other person

before you gasp
and call me cynical

tell me
it’s not true
look me in the eye
and tell me
it’s not true
wipe my face clean
and tell me
it’s not true
pick up the bucket
from where it fell
and tell me
it’s not true

o my people
hear this

nothing is different
though all is changed

we only read
to reinforce our biases

we befriend in silos 
fuck in farms
war from barn to barn

the skin game
is the only game

famous
means never having to learn again

everyone shares
unknown things

a discussion has a half life
of no duration at all

ignorance is 
endlessly repeatable

the only senses worth gratifying
are hearing and seeing

shallow is
as divinity does

o my friends
I encapsulate you

in
quotes

Behind the blinds, waiting.
Listening for the clank, waiting.

Checks, junk, bills, or letter?
Birthday card from long-lost love? Waiting.

Glimpse of the truck up at the corner. 
Who’s driving — the regular, the substitute? Waiting…

from everywhere, that paper comes to me.
Paper that matters, that kills or kisses…waiting

for bulk mail or perhaps a package
I do not expect?  Or something else…waiting

to see what comes.  For the daily Visitor
who’s never welcomed inside the house.  Waiting

for She who walks among us and never enters
while leaving impact in Her wake, like wind…waiting

for my mind to return to the trivial from the ridiculous
here…it’s just mail.  Just stuff.  Waiting 

too intently makes you a fool.  Just go get it from the box
after it’s come…now.  And…nothing.  Waiting

to see how I feel — relief at no airborne disaster, 
disappointment at no airborne surprise?  Waiting’s

gone on long enough — step away from the analog
and the mystery wind, back to the screen where there’s no waiting

for a communication from random life.  It’s instant.
No muss, no fuss…no ritual.  No holiness in waiting.

In this coffee,
clarity…? hard
to tell; maybe
the usual confusion
is just spread more thinly
over my foggy old
nerves. Perhaps
the notion of “clarity”
itself and the various aids
that are recommended
for its enhancement
are all myths, and

I’m stuck with having
to muddle through
regardless.  I know,

though, that the ritual
helps a lot in getting me 
into the mood for the struggle;
we’ve lost so much 
in our cavalier dismissal
of such things and how
they carry us through
the crooked enjambement of 
frenzy and boredom
that is our modern

world; we pour, spoon, pour
milk, sip, adjust; we
make it work, check the color
and the taste closely —
details are missed too often
in our lives and this at least
restores the practice
of care and control
for a moment.

Slew a mouse tonight —
he appeared when I moved
a pile of papers — stood there,
tiny, gray-brown, unblinking —
slew him, brought a bottle
of cleaning fluid down hard —
he bled, twitched, was still dying
when I tossed him off the back porch —
so small, seemed so surprised
to see me — slew him fast, disposed
of him at once.  Had
no second thought about it.
How could I when I never
had a first thought about it?

I used to love her
My significant other
Though I could never balance
the terms of our equation
Which mattered more —
significant or other?
Sublime or ridiculous?
Those fancy words
for incredible descriptions
of cliffhanger moments
Wondering what
would happen next

As the pain heaped up
I waited for the tipping
to settle
It didn’t happen swiftly
I stood there like a stone
identifying with the weight
that kept piling on
with no clue as to who
was doing the piling

But piling continued
by invisible hands
Boxes and cartons and heavy baskets
of things upon things
The view of the scale was obscured
by the weights upon it
and I kept asking what words
were the critical terms —
depressed or angry?
sublime or sublimated?
Bauble or baggage or garbage
or grave-fill?
Performance art
for an audience of two
where both are the artists
or chaos in a crumbling house
while neither is willing to watch?

I used to love her
My significant other
I think that was her only name
My own was as veiled as any she had
so I stopped thinking I had one
anyone else would ever call
Who could see me anyway?
Who would want to see me?
All that heaping and hoarding
and I called it my fault
everytime I called it
I called it
Called it
You’re it, I’d say
You’re it and I need to run
and not come back

I used to love her
My signficant other
The evidence is here somewhere
Under the trash mountains
ranges of gems and flies
and I don’t know what to call this now —
Abandonment or survival tactic?
Cowboy out or snake in the crevice?
Man or beastly little sneak?

I’m a man of four words
My fault 
My luck
What could I have said?
Would anything have mattered?
What should I have taken away?
Was there ever a doubt
as to how the scale would shift
and if there was no doubt
shouldn’t I just be happy now
that it’s finally
finally
over?

We fear
the haunted baggage
under their eyes,
their hands
nervous on probable weapons
in their pockets.

How crisply they turn
at the slightest sound behind them
to survey the room
with an apparently random glance.

Is there any hope
for these dented sons
of warriors?

This is my father’s house,
they say,
and my father’s fortress,
and all of you are enemies
until my father’s wisdom
proves otherwise.

We knew their fathers well,
too well perhaps
to trust the sons.  Our fathers
taught us how to read
between the lines
on their faces,
after all.

I colluded
with the wood in my walls
to remain invisible
but sturdy today

despite the gnawing
in my skull
and the ache
in my gut

I got things done
quietly
without fanfare
holding the place together

I’m as proud
as a support beam
that I have managed
to be productive

even though
to the outside world
it may appear
that I did nothing 

the wood and I both know
that what is done in secret
often makes all the difference
for tomorrow