I sit with a coffee

Cannot help but think
on a cold morning
on this the final day
of November

of how I’ve got
prescriptions to pick up
and over the counter meds as well

Maybe have another coffee afterward

Sit and sip and ponder
those lives I’ve lived
and that I’ve ended living
with no death to speak of

The last chapter of the book I was writing
just ended without a warning
just ended with no closure
just ended with not even a whimper
just ended with no hope of a sequel

I sit with coffee

If I have time
before the next book begins
it will likely be the final book

There is so little time left
before the start
before the ending
before I begin again
before I close

One more cup then

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

Toward the top of the hour,
he stood on the floor
of the hospital room
and looked her in one eye.

One eye
looked back
as blue as a wound
or a memory.

Her memory fell into
a cavern and landed softly
on stony ground, untouched
and unmarked by rocks.

Those rocks rose and fell,
rose and fell as if
waves willfully tossed them at her skin
and caught them as they returned.

He stood in the doorway
of a hospital room
and counted those rocks —
one, two, three — as they fell

ordinarily on a linoleum floor
and clattered as they landed
on a memory, on her skin;
her skin, her malleable skin.

He watched them for hours
as they fell as stars fell upon her.
Turned away crying, crying out.
He watched them fall. He watched,

and sobbed himself dry.

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

“I don’t know what it takes to be chosen;”
an arresting line
from a song on the radio.
I don’t know that I know either —
sitting
in my accustomed chair, weary
of it, tired of the seesaw,
the up and down of this;
I sit and wonder for hours
why I can’t be chosen.

The guitar next to me? Untouched
and stubborn in its refusal to be played well.
The poems I’ve written? Unread
and mostly forgotten unless I struggle.
The life I live? What of it? My hair is uncombed,
my teeth unbrushed, my beard just this side
of looking unkempt. I look a mess.

“I don’t know what it takes to be chosen…”
well, I will never know, I think.

So I will sit here, unselected. I’ll wait for time
to end for me, for others.
I’ll sit long hours in this ratty chair
waiting for the impossible to happen —
waiting for an unknown choice
to make itself known; so.
I will remain here
breathlessly unsteady, not able
to understand what it means
or what, if any, the available choices are;
perhaps there are none
or perhaps there are a million and one;
perhaps I have done so already.
I sit here waiting to be chosen;
waiting for a wave
to lift me up and carry me away.

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

Ruined, I am ruined
by the progress of years.
Each day starts with a token try —
I can’t get out of bed without
great effort which I’d rather be turning
to making love, if I was not alone;
to making art, since I am. What
would I be making? Since you asked,

maybe I’d take up painting, maybe
my old guitar would call me;
maybe I’d just sit and think and write
fantastic thoughts of dragons or something;
of the end of the current
administration at the hands
of the electorate — maybe.

Instead I struggle to the bathroom
and weigh myself, cheering my
tiny poundage loss; I make coffee
on the way to my measurements —
blood sugar, blood pressure — then I dress
and come out to here, to the computer,
to address the world as I see it.

It’s a relief to puzzle
over this dilemma: I’m a mess
of conflicting huge desires and
mundane needs. To wonder
about making love — there it is
again — or rising from bed
at all; why do I bother? Does
making room on the page
do a damn bit of good for
any fantasy I might harbor
for my healed self; does any vision
of my healed self include
any other — or am I lost, lost
alone amid my fantasies?

I don’t know. I sit here
with a cup of coffee and
my dream of self-sustenance.

I don’t know. I sit here
blank inside and nondescript
outside; ruined face, muscles
not firm, most of all
my old eyes — sunken ships.

They look out and see the ocean
as the end of things. They look out
and see no fish, no shells,
nothing but waves overhead
driven by winds unseen
while I sit calmly
at the bottom of the dark ocean
and think of anything at all
that differs from this.

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

I pour a large cup
of bitter coffee. I go
sit in the living room,
pull out this computer,
and I write after I sit for a bit.
Sip the coffee now and then;
mostly, I just sit.

Sitting is the aspect of living
I enjoy the most, hate the most,
am spending the most time in.
Sometimes a cat sits with me;
mostly, I just sit alone.

Turn on the radio
and don’t groove along
to any song, really, at all.
If I recognize anyone
I’m happy for a second, then I go back
to sitting, alone, in my worn chair;
I mostly just sit.

The window behind me
holds back the cars, the wind
and the rain, the definite articles
that pin down this earth to a case study
(and there are people who prefer it)
they can review, and study, and ponder
like it matters that you think of it,
think of anything at all; mostly,
though, I just sit.

Sitting is what I do
and sitting is the most I can do,
the least I can do. Mostly
I just sit, and think, pet the cat,
drink coffee, sit some more.

I’d get up and do something else
but what is there to do anyway
that will change this world
the way I want? After all

I am a cripple in despair,
I am a hero waiting for my chance,
I am temporarily snapped to a mold;
you can accept it, say “there, there…”
and pat my head, shake yours
as you turn from me, just sitting there,
a permanently lonely memory perhaps;

but really, I’m just sitting here with my coffee,
my cat on my lap.
and this whole damnable,
lovable world surging behind
my tightly shut eyes.

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

Appropriate for nothing
is what they say about
these facts:

marvelous birds
can chirp or sing or make
noise of any sort in time
with music played below them;
frogs climb trees and play games
within them, games like
poker and hopscotch; leaves
themselves can speak languages
unknown to humans, to any animal
really;

they sniff at all of this
and turn back to books
on business writing, accounting,
and scientific health care
while around them this world
whispers and serenely ignores them
as being superfluous, extra,
and not worth their time.

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

I am sorry
I have been a miss
for you. I’m so
sorry.

I turn
and begin to turn
again and again. I’m
sorry, more sorry

than I have ever been.
The trees are bare, all
the flowers are gone too;
I’m so sorry for that.

The lawn that never existed
outside of our vision,
the river we can’t see from here —
ah, I’m so sorry for them

and the lack of attention
I’ve paid them. Same with
the birds, the wind, the rain
and the sun. I am sorry

there’s no recourse for them,
no penance I can do, no penalty
I could serve. I am sorry
for all of that —

forever and a day, forever
until the wounds come forth
on my skin, until the scars
begin to form and leave me

trapped within them, like
a cage. I apologize
formally now and at once
more intensely

than I have ever said a thing
before now — may the wind
take me, may the rain soak me
if I fail at this. Apologies

all around for this;
I am one with the rain
and sun on this — part of
the weather; part of fading away.

It is what it is, it is
ashes and dust
and broken blooms.
I am sorry and I go now

as do the rain, the snow,
the lost leaves of the willow,
rays of sunlight, the night
as it falls.

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

…and I start to speak…a dream
speech, oration from a place
deep within, and to be honest
it makes little sense in my head:

Weather: rain,
limited sunshine;
leftover clouds.
Gray sky like veins
in granite;
pink glimpses,
a response to gray.
Red-tinged snowflakes
at night in a darkness
nothing could break…

When I speak of
of this strange nonsense
it makes little, frightening sense,
and the horizon feels so distant.

So how do I proceed? Shall I speak,
put air behind it,
form words to make it plain
and clear that I’m speaking
plainly in a language
that should be clear
even when it is not?

I try it out
and say it to you:

Weather: rain,
limited sunshine;
leftover clouds.
Gray sky like veins
in granite;
pink glimpses,
a response to gray.
Red-tinged snowflakes
at night in a darkness
nothing could break…

If I speak like that
of the weather, of the sky full
of portents, if I use words
that meant little till right now
and you are puzzled,
hoping I’d reveal an explanation,
the unvarnished truth
of it would be held within
a series of questions —
is it meaningful? does it
speak to you? will you ask more
of me, ask me to explain it?
will you stay with me
until it’s clear?

Say it again, though you haven’t
spoken yet; say it
out loud:

Weather: rain,
limited sunshine;
leftover clouds.
Gray sky like veins
in granite;
pink glimpses,
a response to gray.
Red-tinged snowflakes
at night in a darkness
nothing could break…

You must understand that these are lines
from a poem I will try to write.
I don’t even know the poem yet
and I won’t until it’s written.
Someday, maybe when I’m gone
and all but forgotten, these words will be clear
and will appear before you one day
when storm or driving rain
comes forth in darkened sky
with that moon somehow
breaking through
a small slit in gathered clouds.

You will sit down and write this poem
and take it for your own, of course,
of course.

After all, I’m just a ghost,
just a ghost…
a ghost in soaking rain.

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