I woke up sad. Felt
useless, worn out —
then I tuned my guitar-lele
to an analogue of DADGAD,
worn-out strings and all
until it sounded somewhere
in the neighborhood of right

and then I hung it on the wall —
two taps of the hammer, no more
than that — hung it right where
I could grab it if there ever came
a hurry to heal things, a need for speed
in fixing the earth to prevent
catastrophe, even if all that would be better
would be me

and my choice to not end
there would be negated or at least
put off. It’s there now
before breakfast and a shower,
after the dishes are done.

Before the needful, after
the needful. Right then
it was the needful; I am glad
to have it done so the music
awaits me from the white wall,
the dark wood, the still-polished strings.

I don’t know what comes next. If anyone
knows whisper it in my ear;
let me stretch my crippled fingers
to the tune.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

having a cup of strong coffee as I type.
this is all I live for.

not even live for,
exactly. I exist for this. I make up
for all my faults, small or large, grievous
or trivial, even the imaginary ones,
this way.

if you approve
of this way of life — this shunning
of brave face, this jaw lightly open
until I shut it tight — with there
being a purpose behind it, however small
and trivial —

you can clap, you can
shower me with kisses or one good
slap on the back and heartful
congratulations — you can go for it
and I won’t mind because

today I’m like any bug
landing here for a moment:
anonymous for a brief second
but memorable.

like the taste
of a good cup of coffee,

lasting until I wash off
or am rinsed away.

Five forty six AM; I am sitting
on the edge of my seat. My heart
is a little bit faster than normal.
I am not sweating much; that’s all;
this is how an origin begins.

How the story
has grown from nothing to small facts;
how the story will grow farther and faster
in the interval and I will wake up after sleeping
to find it grown.

Five forty nine AM
and the break between starting and here
has become consequential; I am lying down
and trying not to breathe too quickly.
An origin story takes time to grow.

How the story
does grow, does slow, adds substance;
how there are names that come and go
and slowly change, and how I fold
my contributions in until they are seamless.

Six seventeen AM.
I am wrapping up. The story
will continue, of course; of course
it will. I will turn away from it. Pay it
little mind. It is in its own glory, after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

I don’t know
how to say
I found you;
just — I did.
I found you
and you were
wearing the same
clothes, the same
outfit, the exact
costume she was.
I did not
know how long
I played; just
know I did
and it lasted
a little while
or perhaps longer.
Eventually, it seemed
longer. I did
the needed stretch
and you were
released and ran.
You ran, eventually,
and I fell
to the earth
and cried joyfully;
I was free.
At last. Dreams
had come…true?
Figment of imagination?
You know, friend,
I’ve lost track.
Did you exist?

Let’s suppose it was like
they say…let’s choose
to believe them when they say
it’s terrible in here.

Let’s assume
they were right — that
everything clumsy is real
and you will find no grace in here.

Let us choose to believe them
and to leave them unmocked
and untroubled as they walk away,
brushing off their hands, never looking back.

Your flights will go unseen by them.
Your rising up and up will go unseen by them.
You might have been clumsy — skinned knees
and hands as you picked yourself up and rose

for all time — you might have been awkward,
flailing as you nonetheless elevated yourself
from the earth to the air above it; no matter.
You flew and in less time than it has taken me

to tell this story, you were supported by the air.
You were lifted above and while they did not catch on,
they knew — they knew. They knew that the earth
seemed less bound. They felt it — they felt it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

The coffee? It’s good. The aftermath
of it, the flavor that stays with you? It’s
good. All of it is good, stays with you,
is satisfying — that’s enough. You can sit
for hours with it and it will be enough
to hold you. What is fair about this? Nothing
and everything — you could sit for hours
with it, immobile as you are, and rotted things
and intact items will rise up unchanging
before you; there will be roses of incredible
perishable loveliness and then the letter will come
with its tale of tax debt and ruin
and still you will sit with stolid loveliness intact
and you will say, shrug voiced, not solemn:
amen. This is good coffee. I think another cup
is in order for the good of my health and the world.