I remember,
I remember —
what do I recall?

I recall
a man dying in Arizona,
falling to the earth after a hike.

I recall an old man dying
in Washington,
far from the New England hills.

I recall a young woman dying
from aggressive cancer
in Buffalo.

I knew a man
who died suddenly in the Catskills
in New York, again.

I think I knew a man who died
somehow by a gunshot
after he returned from Afghanistan.

I hardly knew a man,
more than one, dying of AIDS
somewhere.

I did not know a woman
who died of something, something
in Sacramento.

I did not know a man
who died on a street corner
in Florida, somewhere.

There have been
others, of course, who died in
various places, men and women,

young and old, famous and infamous
and not my friends or in deep closeness
to me.

All of them say nothing
to me now. Waiting, I guess,
for me to join them?

I remember,
I remember —
what do I remember?

The woman who died
in Buffalo told me, urgently
before she went on her way,

that there was something,
something she needed
to tell me, something vital,

something
she couldn’t recall —
and she never did.

When I go
I’ll be looking forward
to hearing it.

Of course it likely won’t matter then
and I will die forever ignorant
of it.

But I will be okay not knowing it
if I get to see any of them again,
if I can recall their names,

if I can speak their names,
if they even
remember their own names.

I will forget my own name
then. I remember, I recall —
what do I recall?

Nothing worth mentioning
to you, the living.
I close the door on all of this,

silently as if I am afraid
of these old words. I am not afraid
of anything any more,

and I look forward
to learning the new words
for all things.

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

Society,
bloated
gasbag of a monster,
full-throated tooth-
grinding shape of vanilla
and old blood gone new
again, keeps me
sharp —

I need to be sharp
to know it and avoid
the parts it sends to
devour me —

take the case of an old song
that moves me toward tears,
take the case of the radio
in total —

I need to be sharp against it
so that I do not fall asleep
humming along to
the old song as if I were
sixteen again, seventeen,
eighteen and

I’m in my old Chevy
with no one beside me
and for once in my misery
I’m happy and joyfully
singing along and I sound
perfect —

in line with what society
would come to dictate
through clenched teeth,
soothing me nevertheless,
whispering sweetness in poison
as if there was no one
who could touch me
on my way to Nirvana
or Heaven or some such place —

eighteen again
and locked down
to what, I can’t imagine —

not in sixty five years,
not in a lifetime,
not in either
a dull future
or the sharpened, dimming
remembrance
of a brighter past.

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