Originally posted on 9/9/2013.

gray figures that once beckoned me
onto this trail

with encouragement that was sometimes 
indistinct but always necessary

gray figures I imagine are there for me
in my worst moments 

gray figures now so cloaked
in routine’s amnesia

that on the good mornings
when I see one or more on my periphery

I stop in deep surprise and gratitude 
wherever I am

to nod and acknowledge them gently
and swiftly so as not to slow my progress

before returning to the trail with
increased confidence

for that day
at the very least

to those gray figures 
I owe a debt still unpaid

for their direction on the trail
I salute them though I only know them

as glimmers now
and now and then 

it is (madness to think it) almost as if
I had directed myself

with dreams alone
to this real moment

Originally posted 4/27/2012.

A man who has found himself 
alone in the stacks of fabrics
is about to become a problem:
the abundance of corduroys, denims, twills,
crushed velvets, satins, and silks
is setting his trigger.  It’s too much,

he tells himself.  It’s all too much 
and simpler is better and clothing is 
optional.  It’s all flammable and vain
and anyway, who still makes their own clothes?
We are ordained by God
as consumers
and not producers,
just as I am ordained
as fuel
and not as torch…

he kneels in the middle of the store
with a lighter,
baffled by the choices before him:
should he light the tulle, the organdy,
the glittering green Spandex? 
Before he can choose

he’s tackled, driven to the ground,
brought down screaming
that it’s all too much, blah, 
too much to feel, blah blah, 
too many choices, blah, blah, blah; 
the same old blah, blah, blah we hear every time
from those
who somehow find being American 
too damn hard.