Elsewhere is the place
I mostly want to be
The word I utter most often
The thought I hold up front
Here is all the ruin
and the whip snap of the storm
The broken glass in a bare foot
The dawning sense of wound
Elsewhere is the house
I wish was still standing
Open or closed as needed
Insured and strong and mine
Here is what I want to say
I have missed the train to elsewhere
The wait for the next one is so long
I don’t know if I can stay here
Young men, don’t speak to old men
if you don’t want to know
all the things you are doing wrong.
Don’t even look at us
if you don’t want to know
what it looks like
after fear’s been washed out
of skin and clothes and
eyes. It’s going to look
a little different from one to
the other of course: maybe
we will look noble
or maybe empty,
or still look
as we always did,
but don’t risk the glimpse
of what may be coming soon
to a body and soul like yours.
Sit back and let us be,
Trust me, in general
you don’t want to know
what we know —
and trust me, we will
tell you.
Revised from 2017.
You must demonstrate
your devotion to The Struggle
through copying and pasting
You will bring down the State that way
Perhaps someone will be moved
Begin their own path forward
through your impassioned mashing of keys
There is a place for some of us there
I won’t deny that sometimes
I feel less timid after sharing
then seeing who liked it
and who shared it
I have a spreadsheet of justice
shorter perhaps
than Santa Claus’s
Mine’s labeled naughty nice and dangerous
It has columns
and pivot tables
where I keep track of shares and likes
Sometimes I make a little mark
about those
who never
do anything
My spreadsheet tells me who to love
Copy and paste this if
you want to end injustice
or stop cancer
Demonstrate it or be suspect
Someone is always
watching
and listening
A crow
with open wings
on the neighbor’s roof.
A beagle mix
I do not recognize, trotting alone
down the far sidewalk.
Tracks
of squirrel, cat, maybe others
in new snow.
Cars parked in front
of homes with their curtains drawn
until their mornings begin.
I forget, sometimes,
that this is also a true face
of my country,
marvel at how many
have found a way
to sleep soundly here,
even in daylight. Even
as peace is failing.
Even as rough beasts
prevail, movement
apparently free from care
and caution continues.
I am afraid
to step out. Deal
with it, I tell myself.
Like the crow on the roof
with raised wings, look
bigger than you are.
The stray dog who
trots free to spite the law
says, deal with it.
The tracks say
deal with it, be gone
before you are seen.
The houses and cars
say deal with it; safety exists,
if only temporarily.
I am the fool here,
the crazy guy, the contrary
telling you what I feel.
It doesn’t make me
less glad for peace
outside my windows
that I am
on edge
most of the time.
I just long
to sleep in
more often.
Once again
one is learning how close
to an edge — cliff
or knife — one can get
before committing.
Climbing down, coming back
from that leaves one
breathless, as if
the act itself would not
have done that better
and left one more stable and
arguably in better shape.
Let’s do it
again and again
till we finally blow it,
says the Other,
a diamond point tool
in its hand
as it carves
another itty-bitty notch
on some weakened
crucial bone.
Who’s we, another voice
asks the drill bit.
I’m carried along with you
unwilling, hoping for closure
when you finally slash or leap;
a sense of finality
that will then end
in minutes or seconds,
depending on your follow thru.
After that passes,
no one knows if it
will hurt or heal.
Not hoping
to learn it soon, but
I suppose
that if you come here again.
I will be there.
Deal, says the Other.
One comes back
to dulled life and
is whole again
for now.
Dark Matter 