Keep at it, keep
at it: the fingers
urge me, the hands
keep urging me
to post, to write
as if there is nothing
else I could be doing,
should be doing;

as if there aren’t
shoes to buy, a letter
in the mail to puzzle
over, punctuation
to look at it in each
piece I write
and then fret upon:
common, semicolon,
em-dash? Capitals
or no?

Is this one
going to break me open,
break me out?
Will the next one?
Which piece will be my last?

I sit in a big old chair
in the living room writing
and I call it living
because I admit
that I can’t imagine
what not living
(or not writing) is like.

I bend to it:
I keep at it, keep
at it; an unlucky
person may read it
one day and they will
think they knew me
if I am true to it
and maybe I’ll be gone
or maybe not, but at least
I will leave a smudge
or a smear or, absurdly,
some profundity behind.
Something just so.
Something minimally
right.

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

This house, for once,
is well lit. Got a few things
to do and I need
light in which to do them
although I prefer to do things
in the dark —
let the branches
scrape the windows, let the rain
patter down in irregular
bursts, let me close my eyes
and listen to these things,
wonder if I’m missing something.

But I’m awake before sunrise
or what might be sunrise today
if the sun comes through
these dense gray clouds —
whatever. I’m here before
the light which follows through
each day, after night, regardless
of a sunrise.

Now, there will be a sunrise today.
The radio says it’s certain
and I’m counting on it.
I’ve lit the house well to hold me
artificially safe.
But I still long for my bed and
the dark.
I count on the dark
to hold me still, keep me warm,
and protect me for
as long as it can.

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

It is folly to believe
that when you close your eyes
you will remember
all names you’ve heard
in your life.
Some are gone, as are
faces, voices; even
their scents cannot be
connected to them.

Of course
you couldn’t be bothered
to learn them back then so
you will not know them now.
They are not water and
did not stain your memory.
But once in a while
a scrap will jog free of its darkness
and then you will come to think
that a whole piece of your past
survived, but
you will have failed, or rather
your past stayed stubborn
and refused its shelter.

If you shut your eyes,
cover your ears, keep
a tight hold on what you have,
and be a little silent in its
chattering face;
you instead choose to watch
a mourning dove strut by
and notice how it does not seem
perturbed at all by wind,

you will be fine.

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

Slow down,
respect the infernal process,
learn it for keeps,
watch it slide about,
hear it make its skittering sounds
around your head,
turn off your mind to it,
turn off music and chatter
from the radio,
the TV, from
everywhere it still exists.
You’re getting too old for it,
you close your eyes,
try to shut your ears,
allow nothing in but still
you hear it, a thin
variable whine,
heat throbbing in old pipes,
steam hissing,
a clank now and then,
you swear you
have closed your mind to it
yet it keeps coming back from
everywhere it still exists.
There is a sound
within what you claim as silence
and it won’t drive you mad
if you simply open up
to it
and let it come in from
everywhere it still exists.

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

Walking a city sidewalk,
early October;
drags left leg slightly;

head down, his hands folded behind his back;
gray pants just a smidge too large for him;
a brown T-shirt with unknown writing on it;

walking on a warm day, almost a hot day,
it could be one last warm day for a while;
walking past a gas station, ignoring cars;

walking slowly as if in meditation
though he more likely is
in pain or distress or perhaps

is just tired, tired of all of this —
and I have been that man and could be
him again someday.

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