What he thinks about often
is a scene from a movie
he hasn’t seen that is not yet in 
release, but is nonetheless familiar:

the stone in his chest,
no larger than a heart,
holds him on his back
on the floor.

There was time once
to deal with the stone,
to unflutter the heart,
to clear the paths.

Time’s still a factor
but not a friend.  Now,
he’s feeling the stone
grow immense.

It has grown large enough
to compress the lungs,
shade the brain, and finally
to cover the light.  

He has to confess 
it’s a pretty good flick.
It has a certain sense
of justice. A certain sense

of preordainment
he recalls whenever
the pain cuts
into his left arm

for a second or two 
late after dinner, or while
he’s doing something
no one would call strenuous.

In the movie 
his character never goes
to the doctor
and neither does he —

that would be too much like 
fast forwarding to within
fifteen minutes of the end
and claiming to have watched it all.

Here’s a planet with
at least a million million
small Gods.  

New heartbeat begins in
a village in Bolivia;

now, estimate is a million million
and one.  

Not every inhabitant 
has a small God in attendance;
some just echo others.  Some
believe in none.  All are here together,
many thrive
and many starve
regardless of belief —

a thick strangler tree breaks through
the layers of a rain forest floor:
a million million two.  A rock, smoking 
on a Hawaii lava flow: four more, though
I don’t know how that’s possible —
I know only what we can see and I clearly see
the birth of four more Gods from the cleft
of a rock in Hawaii.

One species here kills each other often
arguing about God and associated artifacts.
They’ve gotten so much wrong about those things,
and about holy places which care not at all
about how they are honored
or even if they are honored at all.

A million million and forty-three.
They will never get their heads around that number
in a thousand thousand lifetimes — 

a million million fifty four.
It’s going to be the death of them all —

million million
sixty-eight.

Beyond the sunrise shine
of the meadow
we just passed

Beyond the hot tail
the sun’s dragging across
the gloss of the lake
we just passed

Beyond these
the whole world

The parallel rails
ahead of us
must be shining
until we cover them
as we pass

Sun to the left
and then to the right
then to the left again
as we curve and weave
as we pass

Behind me
my love’s getting ready to leave
for her own journey
to the south
to her work
the sun on her face
almost all the way
as she passes

So much adjusting to be done
ahead and behind
to the left
to the right
above and below

Beyond us
the whole world

I’m on a train
to Boston
a few days after Boston
blew up
and became
a darling victim
of the whole world

At the end of this line
there will surely be
guns
suspicion
defiance
sorrow
grief
anger
seized joy
hope
acceptance

There will be
children shouting at this train
and pointing

At the end of this line
the whole world 

You and I grew up
in complete agreement on one point:
we would, under no circumstances, stay here.

Then you did, and I did not,
though I didn’t move too far away.
But I did move.  There were times, therefore,

when I considered you a traitor.  You got stuck,
I suppose, but why didn’t you
struggle harder to free yourself?

Now, of course, I’m not far away
in body, and you’re still there both in body
and in spirit.  You’re fully wherever you happen 

to be, in fact.  I don’t seem to have all of me
with me ever.  How do you do that?
I swear, one day I’m gonna learn

how to be fully present and then
it won’t matter if I’m back in that little town
or not, really.  It won’t matter.

It might never have mattered.  If I’d learned
how to be complete wherever I am
I might never have been jealous of you.

Body?
Layer cake —
spoiled and fresh
alternating, meat
and sweet leaves,
rumble of bad memory,
whispered promise.

Mind?
Fondue —
swift cooks anything
forked into it, pieces falling in
and soaking through,
good for you only when
moderated.

Soul?
Escargot,
perhaps — glimpsed now and then
in a movie,  known but never
considered seriously; do you even go
to the kinds of places where they are
even acknowledged?

Now, what should we call
whatever this is that is talking
about the others
right now, that looks at them
and imagines their flavors?

Clearly it’s not any of these
to be able, so easily,
to stand aside
from them and see them…

for want of another term, we’ll
call it
manna, or
the Gift.

Spring
drives us most crazy
with its presence
when it’s least present.

Gorged buds,
scent of early flowers;
staying out later in nights at last
not so full on deathly cold;
enough is happening to leave us
gasping in frustration
for the pollen
when the late snow falls.

Brutal, treacherous season that it is,
we bend to it, almost breaking,
knowing it’s indeed here
without us being able
to enjoy it — 
knowing it’s here and 
it won’t completely show itself
until it’s almost time to become
summer.

I am most in awe
of my heart
after it’s been sick,

how it comes back to life
a little at a time, peeking around
corners into the rooms
it reenters before revealing itself again,

hoping no one notices
the slight changes it’s been through
that, slowly,
are adding up
to the great universally
human change:

the Full Stop.

I am most in awe of my heart then —
I don’t know how it keeps working,
how it keeps up appearances,
how it beats faithfully
when it should be
in the greatest despair. 

What I recall of the Sixties is my toys and my terror
Vietnam on the news all the time
Spaceships on the news all the time 
Protests on the news all the time
Drugs on the news all the time
I had a lot of guns to play with

What I recall of the Seventies is my drugs and my terror
Electric guitars in my ears all the time
Blurs and bursts and trails in my eyes all the time
First grasp of the news in poems all the time
First surges and rages of sex all the time
I had a smeared streak of joy to play with

What I recall of the Eighties?  Terrible, terrible
Marriage and working and crazy and drink
I want no Eighties in my head all the time
I want no Ronnie, no Nancy, no guns, no roses
No reason at all to have lived through that
No reason at all to recall

What I recall of the Nineties and since
is the continuing terror of how it all feels like the present
Cannot distinguish much of now from then
It’s a short walk back to Kurt’s wounded head from here
It’s a short walk back to New York’s wounded heart from here
It’s a short walk back to the shock of war and awe from here
I feel like someone stuck me with a bill
Stuck me with a bill for all this time
I keep walking forward and away but
It never disappears