I did not know
the fact, simple as toast
or indeed a slice of bread
uncooked — I did not know
that a pitch headed for the head
could possibly maim or kill
but more likely could simply cause
a headache more or less severe —
which, if given a chance,
would gradually, eventually bring about
bleeding that might cause a death
suddenly unbidden:
a piece of toast or bread
of one sort or another
that would someday do
itself proud —
a slice of gentle food
rendered poisonous which started
innocently like a casual ball
tossed, one that started its progress
years ago and made all watching
shake their heads and wonder
at the long grinding spectacle
of dying at the end
of a shortened life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Go to sleep thinking
I have more to read before,
before…more to write before,
before…
wake up to read Holderlin,
to read Novalis…
listen to “”Pure and Easy”
by Townsend…

I can’t sleep yet, not before
I do my part but what is it?
Today it’s nothing,
it’s just sitting with my failings.
Today I am made aware
of all the feelings, complex
and simple, that I feel.
I can’t think, can’t eat but for
simple things with no flavor,
can’t write or read for any money
or fame or nearly ineffable
sense of understanding.

A child
passes me, riding on a star;
man is the sun; all fruit cooked
turns to snakes…
I don’t know
a word to make this all work
as it should. As it should
if I am whole and intact.

My head is full of islands
and the water between them
to swim; I sit like a vegetable…
before my time comes
I want life to connect them again…
but the chance is fat, is gross,
is unimaginable.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward?
T

As if there is enough time
to waste and fritter on small things
I am watching a bug, an indefinite bug,
crawling down the wall.
I’ve been at it for an hour now.
It seems to know where it’s going.
Perhaps I should
get up and follow it
except this chair is so comfortable
and in the long sport of things
I shouldn’t move much, if at all.
I think this is where I should be found
when I am found. As if in that moment
I will know, or even care,
how far I’ve fallen from the need
to do things, feel things, see things
other that this bug and its path
to everywhere. Maybe
it will be different when I go;
maybe it will be
as if I will have started a new life,
a quiet sort of existence in a quieter place
so like this one, yet utterly unlike this place
where the hiss of the pipes is enough
to seem like uiellann pipes,
held beneath the arm,
sweeter and more haunted
as if they were the perfect song for a bug,
an indiscriminate bug wandering
and catching all
my vanishing attention.
“““““““““““““““““““““““““`

onward,
T