Sometimes
I wake up when the wind
picks me up
and rides me miles
into the sky

and sometimes
the wind tries to lift me from sleep
and drops me onto the earth
clumsily without my feeling
a thing about the sky

and sometimes
there is no wind
and I lie there in bed
with my eyes closed
and ruined at least for now
by catarcact and occlusions
and I see
it’s all the same
these varieties
of vision and experience
are the same, separated
by a moment, changed
utterly on the surface
but not at all in truth
as the wind doesn’t care
what man it takes

and though I am left
to figure it out after

sometimes
a moment, a beat,
a breath is all I have
to ascend and take my place
upon the stairs of this world.

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

I hate the television
full of lies and rehashed stories
full of bad ads and tired mixtures
of families and couples
growing trees in perfect lawns
with good kids speeding all around
I hate the television
full of shaded tired stories
of good versus evil in the shape of age
coming up from behind us
white haired and salt-shaded
but vigorously walking along beaches
sneaking up to whisper laughter
I hate the television
full of mistakes and half-blooded wistfulness
for another day past
Never a new day or even a moment
Just close your eyes
Isn’t this too familiar or do you not recall
how they sold you once on anything
till you were dancing outside the packie
with a bottle in your hand
dancing outside the dispensary
with a vaporizer in your mouth
dancing outside the abattoir
all the way into the blessing of forgetting
I hate the television
Hate it for its seduction
Hate it for the love it peddles
Hate it for the vision so sharp it holds
I close my eyes
My ruined eyes
My too-honest eyes
Marbles for the playing
by another who whispers
Look at this if the television hurts
Look at this
Pounds my head again and yet and still
until there is nothing to see
and nowhere left on the dial

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

I’m freezing
after spending an hour
outside, locked out
of the house, socks
on my feet, no keys,
no sense of how to get in
or get by, no more
puttering around waiting

to die or something, can’t quite
say die just yet, my heart

pounding like a song,
a drum song, sticks or beaters
of various sorts, the dancers
lined up and me sitting alone
in a blanket, my regalia
brittle on a hanger by the stove
in my father’s house now

and me in sweats now, socks
on my feet, no coat, this is how
I will be found, memorialized
as a dumbass nondescript old man

who forgot his keys, left the cat
to handle things all alone, left
the words behind to murmur
of his faults and his triumphs
and more —

of his ordinary living
of his ordinary life and his death
on the back porch listening to
a cold wind, the cars, his slowing
frantic breath.

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

Slim and slow
as a fat mistake
pretending to another
being, another guise.

I take a step into it
as wary as ever,
thinking I may yet
turn away.

I’m caught, though.
Don’t know how
to get away from it,
though I don’t yet grasp

the fullness of
what it is. The only way
is to go through it,
so I resolve to go through

the slim snake of it,
the fat mistake of it,
with a shrug and a laugh.
It’s the way of it,

the route left by
ancients and moderns alike.
To snake your way through.
To come out the same but changed.

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

Do laundry, eat breakfast,
do dishes, ponder the coming
mail; play guitar and last of all
work on a poem, at least maybe
a piece of one.

That’s my day
and it’s not even eight thirty
and I can’t think of anymore
that needs doing or wants me
to do it. I could read something
or I could close my eyes
against it all, a last defense
to prevent tears or screams.
I could write more, I suppose.
but it takes more energy
than I can spare —

I close my eyes.
One of these days that
will be enough. Today
it’s not. The clothes
need tthe dryer. My eyes
need a dryer. What do I need
apart from doing
what needs to be done?

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

I don’t really think
I have anything to say
about anything

It’s a void up here
and I’m comfortable
not thinking about it

except that there are people
beyond me
who nudge and prod and goad

I should not care about them
Instead of them I should care
about the void

and how it cares for me
by uncaring existence
Serenely blissful at ignorance

I try to not care much
and I mostly fail
but now and then

I catch a kiss not aimed at me
and I am atomically blessed
by the minute and random nature of it

and go back after a moment
to not caring at all
about it at all — I swear

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

Apologies for the lack of a new poem yesterday — I spent the day at the doctor’s office getting prepped and approved for cataract surgery on my eyes. Tentative date is April 6, but will likely move up. Will keep you posted.

new poem:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I Shrug It Off

Heraldic noises
in my head — where else
would they be? It is not fitting
to assume the world would herald
for me. I am just one of eight billion
who presume prominence and dawn
isn’t much for me to take as my own
instead of lying down quietly
when I pass.

Where else would they be —
internal, reflective
of the imminent storm
or the quiet of the morning?
I shrug it off.

The banners
of vanished kingdoms, the flags
of imaginary lands — they
aren’t for me; I am one
of eight billion, after all;
in the long turn of morning
into day, into night, what can I do
except love what I can until
I pass, quietly, into the next
and the next.

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

Sing then
of oatmeal, of
agave nectar and
cinnamon and milk
poured on; sing of
coffee warmed up
and re-warmed to make it
palatable and the satisfying
nature of completion
of the breakfast meal —
and now what? A shower
and a drive south, then north
again, pained eyes and dark
glasses;

sing of coming home
and sitting still, very still
for an hour, maybe two
or three, until night
and sleep and then the surprise:

waking up ready to scream
because you get to, are privileged
to, have to do it all again —
this is the path to happiness
or unhappiness, depending;

this is the way and in spite of
untold uncounted ways,
this must be your way.

It’s enough
to keep you clung together
for now like oatmeal
in a bowl waiting
for its partner.

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

Tentatively
a cat steps from
the top of one box
down to a lower box
covered with a sheet
and, satisfied, curls up
to sleep; I wish
I felt the same;
even a little, even a smidgen,
falling asleep even if I felt frightened
until drifting off.

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

On the keychain these days
is a double jointed opossum
with an open mouth
aaaaaaaahhhhhh

He screams in joy and desperation
and any number of other reasons
I think he’s a he — could be not —
aaaaaaaaaahhhhh

I think he was made up somewhere
in China or maybe Vietnam
I like him a lot — reminds me of me
with his open body screaming — aaaaahhhh

Sometimes I get bothered by all
that is happening to me and all
that isn’t — all the truth that I can’t face
or will not deal with though I can see it

It’s a math problem or a logic issue
where X is all the years I have lived
and Y is the years that are likely left
I curl up and close my eyes — aaah, aaah

Don’t try to shake it off
Don’t try to make it go away
Opossum has the holy answer to it
Hang out clean and scream AAAAAAAHHH

and then shut up abour ir
till it comes to eat you and you drop
The wind outside is inside you then
Inside you say ahhh and then you rest

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