I take the first pill
and wait. I don’t
feel anything — yet.

Take all the other drugs
too, right after. What difference
will it make?

I’ve got a host of reasons
to take them; most of them
boil down to this: trying

to postpone death so I take them
and wait for a result, and wait,
and wait. No feeling inside.

No feeling of any type,
in fact. Maybe that’s the ticket:
no feeling until the last moment

one can feel anything, and then
I say: oh marvelous, I can feel
again. And then, it’ll be over

and I will rest, amazed
that it took so long, or such
a short time. Meanwhile, I wait.

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

There is one thing I could do:
cry like a rough wind. It might be
enough. So why I can’t shake a feeling
that it will not do?

I don’t stop
from shivering, from my body
trembling like a figure from legend
or a television show.

There are times
I startle back to consciousness
and man, oh man, I want to sob
and rend my clothing.

But then I look at my self,
my piece in this game we play,
my worn form, my bumpy face
and scarred arms still holding on.

I buck up. I bite down
and hold on like a pit bull
until weary, then I let go
and slip back to dream-state.

Man, oh man, I wish there was
another way to go but there isn’t
any obvious, no easy passage. I buck up
instead, bite down, am silent. Don’t cry.

Little man, little ape: you won’t recall
much of this in a minute or two.
Leave it and those left behind with it
will deal; cursing you, no doubt.

Don’t worry about anything. There will be
sunshine, tears, rain, fire.
What you care about
is unimportant. Be well.

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

Suppose, for this one time,
you knew this was it — that this
was the last moment you would have
and the vision of the first shoots out front
was the last vision you’d have
and the radio scratching through
“Pancho and Lefty” was the last song
you’d hear and the scent of your sweatshirt
was the final scent of your whole life —

suppose this was it, that you’d leave
love and anger and shame behind you
as you moved down the road, getting
back in your fragile car after mailing
your regrets to the world, after sending
them out and collapsing
into the car with a penultimate sigh —

suppose this was it, that this represented
you as cosmic, dying soon with a whimper
on a whisper, slipping away saying
nothing, needing their prayers a little
but not much, not even wondering
which one cared the most because you knew
without asking deep in your bones and nerves —

suppose you took it there today,
suppose you went there today,
suppose you closed your eyes and soul
thinking of them, of her, suppose
you take it and leave it and wipe your hands
as you leave, shining in your way,
breathlessly striding upward and outward
into a grander world…

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