Ridiculous name given
to a myth of a hideous animal
whose only escape plan if captured
is to turn itself into wetness and salt

There’s a tramp on a dirty road
He carries a squonk he has caught
in a dirty sack
thinking he’s really got something here

This man has some typical issues
Typical pain writ large upon him
Wraps himself for daily cover
in typical sad old clothes

He’d trapped sorrow in the wild
Hoping to tie his own to its back
Hoping to set it free and watch it all go
All he has now to show is a stain

That bag on his back has sprung a leak
The squonk falls in drops in the roadside dirt
Hemlock springs up in each little crater
marking a sting flavored trail

He’s stuck with all he came in with
and a sad myth of a squonk trapped in a bag
Who will believe he once had pain contained
and dared to believe that might make him happy

A tramp on a road with a bag holding nothing
A man soaked to his skin with damage and coping
It’s enough that he thought he might get away
Enough for the moment at least till tomorrow

Go ahead — sneer at a coming storm
the way you’d brush off
a slight head cold.

Go ahead — curse the weather people
you claim are likely making blizzards
out of flurries.

As you do,
a woman whose cardboard sign
you’ve driven by every day for months

is tucking herself into thin blankets and tarps
under the plastic roof of a lean-to
behind a long empty auto shop.

She knows how to read
that blank gray sky,
the silence, the dead cold.

She knows what’s coming.
People without homes
know better than you ever could

how cold it will be,
how deep it will be, how likely it is
that some of them are going to die.

Go ahead — complain about
the insignificance of the weather to you.
As you complain, think about

what it takes to make that true, and how much
of what it takes you could spare
for that woman (if you ever see her again)

standing on that corner 
with her sign
that says “God Bless You,”

meeting your eyes
with a look that says she thinks
you deserve that blessing.

Spent my junior year
at a prep school
where I ran with a bunch
of other problems
in letter jackets —
spoiled kings
looking for footmen
to serve us
and lackeys to punish.
We had our regular targets,
and Andrew Dillon was one.

Something
was off with that kid.
We felt it, he felt it,
it showed in all things
from locker to dorm

but his sweetness,
so obvious
behind his clumsiness,
protected him from
our worst rages. His eyes
would trickle a little
each time we’d threaten
casual violence
for his social screw-ups
and awkward moments,
and we’d be shamed
into just slapping his head
or throwing mock punches
till he ran,
and we’d laugh.
Eventually
he became our
mostly ignored mascot,
primarily (I think)
as a way to survive us.

One day
just for shits and giggles
we made Andrew
fight his best friend
in front of us during lunch.
They threw sad little blows and tried
to wrestle to some outcome
they thought would satisfy us.
We urged them on,
pushing them back together
when they separated,
snot and blood
thick and sticky
upon their uniforms.

Andrew’s fat little adversary
landed one hard on his jaw,
screamed as he did it,
a shrill primal rip
in the air around them.
I saw a tooth fly in a red arc;
I saw Andrew go down;
I felt myself panic;
I let myself run with the others.

Andrew had a lightly broken jaw,
lost two teeth,
and was suspended for fighting.
His friend was expelled.
We got a talking to from Coach
and the head master yelled at us
but because there was a game
that weekend
we had detentions for two weeks
and because we won
that was all
anyone wrote.

As for sweet Andrew,
he stayed away from us,
and the likes of us,
forever after.

Some of my
so-called friends
are in truth
proud to be bullets
resting in chambers
waiting
to bark and
bite me, and I
am unable
to offer any defense
except that
I do not want to die —
at least
not like this —

staring you down,
forever expecting
the worst of you,
fearing
you’ll pierce me
in the name of
something
you pretend
is love.

I think my life
has been a campaign
of scorched earth
except that I burned
what was before me,
and thus walked
into these barrens
fully aware
of what was coming,
feeling somehow
that all the pain
was required of me
in order to illustrate for some
what not to do,
how not to live.

My life was never 
my own, and happiness
was not for me except 
in short bursts
which were meant
to make me hurt more
when they were inevitably
blown away.

Call me what you want —
insane, mad, depressed, 
evil, deluded, wrong, 
wrong, wrong — 
I will agree
but only because such labels
comfort you,
not me,
never me.

my father told me
again and again
starting when
I was quite young:

“son, the only time
you should start a fight
is if they call you a redskin
or they call you a half-breed.
then, 
swing hard
and strike hard
and keep swinging
and striking
until they cannot
keep speaking.”

when a button 
that large
is built into 
a boy
that young,

you should not be surprised
that as a fully grown man
that boy might try to watch
a football game
with clenched fists trembling
and nausea rising
and memories flooding
until he turns the TV off
and does something, 
anything else.

you should not be surprised
that as a fully grown man
he snarls like a schoolyard 
at an office party remark meant
to describe
without any understanding
of how it once was used
to proscribe.

you shouldn’t 
be surprised
that he doesn’t want to talk
about any of this with you
until you take your clumsy finger
and your ignorant tongue
off the goddamn button.