Come from the highway
up Millbury Street toward home
on a day that feels like
the end of a world
in the after-rain sunset.
On the sidewalk is
the woman I’m sure
a sitcom would name “Cookie”
walking away from
a pickup with flashers on:
walking in a long coat,
curly red hair full of handsome grey;
walking an Afghan hound,
leaving the disabled pickup behind
on her way to somewhere
else. Leaving what doesn’t work behind.
Taking her comfort with her,
like Cookie in a sitcom finale.
You have become so timid
about how things are in your world,
keeping to your grimy cocoon
even when it is touched
by something liable to break it
or tear into it before you are ready.
You’ll never be ready at this rate.
You can’t move in there, long ago grown
but unwilling or unable
to emerge. All you do is fret
about how it will be if you ever do,
about how certain you are
that it won’t measure up
to what you expect.
You have become so timid —
stop. Better to be devoured
out there, it is said,
than it is to rot in
former comfort,
filthy silk.
We
is one of those words
everyone kisses
but no one loves.
They
is said feverishly,
furtively, side-eye given
toward its target.
I
exalts and wallows
at once, misery
grounding satiety.
Us
means nothing. Like we
it barely exists. Written always
in blood, it dries quickly.
To speak American
is to know instinctively
the importance
of such words,
then cast them
casually about
and let the blood fall
as it will.
Stunning how the microplastics
catch the light as they float
in this glass of water
that I just took from the faucet,
how they spin in suspension.
I may yet drink it anyway.
It seems that I have little choice
if I’m to quench my thirst.
It doesn’t seem fair
that this has been done to us all
with only our implicit consent
by way of our consumption.
It doesn’t seem right
that the pollution, from
what’s in the tap water glass
to the red in the sky at sunset,
is pretty enough sometimes
to distract us from fear
and disgust at what
we’ve made of this place.
Still, I’m thirsty,
and so I suck down
the glass full of poison gems,
this acknowledgement of guilt.
Twice now
I’ve seen an eagle
flying over the highway
north of the city.
Once when I was northbound,
its white head clear as day;
once when I was southbound,
its flight distinctive as its colors
which I was
unsurprised to see
included no
red or blue.
Nothing patriotic
in the clouds behind.
No hint of war or profit
under its wings.
That’s one big, beautiful bird,
I told myself. That’s one
joy I’d like to see more of
every day.
I keep my eyes open for it
when I drive to and from
my job trying to hold
some hope, however small,
that what is
true and clean
will not perish
from the earth.
If you have words
to bind your pain,
bind it and put it
to one side. Step
around it, walk away,
don’t look back.
You will
come back to it, of course.
One day it will reappear
in your path. You will
have walked full circle
and come back to it —
it never moved, cannot
transport itself — but the words
that held it will prove
to have bound you too.
Here you are,
never having looked back
but with it in full view
before you. The view
isn’t that familiar at first —
you thought
you’d managed to forget?
Then you find
your antiquated prayers —
your knees crack
as you strike the earth
with all your weight — that or upon
dropping to a bathroom floor, perhaps;
maybe you wake in bed,
with your knees
curled to your chest.
You may have no words,
now. You may be
unable to speak
of any of this
to anyone but yourself
with something on your tongue
that is not open to language —
well, you may have these words
if they work. They are as much yours
as they are anyone’s.
…but I am forgetting my manners —
how are you, how are you,
and how are you? So good
to see you here, to see you
anywhere, in fact. I’d heard
things and although
I know better than to credit them
without corroboration, I was afraid
they might be true in this world
of deportations and vanishings
from off the street. You can’t ever
be sure anymore. Torture chambers
springing up on back streets,
in the old warehouses we once played in.
Never trust your neighborhood watch
not to get you killed and call it
due diligence, am I right? Come in,
though, come in! Come in
past the doorbell camera, pay no mind
to the blinking light on the mantle;
I’ll cover as much as I can for you,
should have done it sooner, before you
got here; can’t be too careful,
I suppose, although I suppose
we are too careful in some ways.
The border fence, the guard posts,
the minute wars and accidents
of vigilance. I knew a lot of people
once. They seem to have disappeared.
Thought I saw one the other day
on the corner. But let’s not dwell
on the bad parts of the living
we are making here. Focus instead
on the music. The fashions,
the holy trends and not the holy wars.
Focus instead on the trappings
of “the greatest country in the history
of the world.” We’re on the moon again,
did you hear? And I’m replanting
the old trees we lost in the drought —
the magnolia, the poplar, whatever
will take. Sit down, I’ll fetch drinks.
Let’s catch up.
Held in the feeling
of always walking down hill,
even when climbing stairs.
Sensing animals
hurtling by, barely in
in the edge of sight;
unfamiliar creatures —
sentient, wary, and
inadvertently deadly, I hear;
things almost seen
are surging together
to kill me, maybe, and
I can’t seem to stop that;
I can’t help that
gravity and the weakened ghost
of the strength in my legs
is compelling me
to approach them.
Did you think it could go on forever, this whole art thing, this creativity at all costs, this longing for words to improve the atmosphere, this lust for rhythm in the tongue, this leapfrogging over bills to get to treasure, this break in the responsibility for material survival, this fantasy of music on the lips even as the big heart inside is faltering, this open invitation to peek at your shit, this diving, this digging, this stink of flop sweat, this perfuming, this velveteen drama, this pose you pretend is purely accidental? Do you understand how close you still stand to where you born, to how you came out squalling and stayed squalling? At least you got — what was it you got from all this again?
I’m walking into
the house after work
and by chance
I look to the left
toward the patch below
our front room windows,
toward
the black-mulched front yard
pitted all over
from squirrels and birds
winter hunting,
hunger looking.
City made us take
the feeders down last year,
claiming rats would come
also hunting, looking.
Right at my feet
first daffodils
poke up from
next to the walkway;
we saw a cardinal
in the bare red bush
yesterday for the first time
since November.
Only time I’ve ever seen
a rat on this street
was mid-summer, rooting
through the long leaves
of daffodils and hostas. I stop,
look hard at the roughed-up yard.
I miss the birds, think of putting
the feeders back in March —
maybe just one, risk a trade off:
take a chance on pestilence
to stave off hunger. Some say
feeders are always a bad idea.
I don’t know about that. I do know
I miss the birds
and it won’t be too long
till the daffodils bloom, and
God only knows
what hunger will bring
to my front yard once they do.
I go into the house to think.
Country anthem, blues medallion,
banners of dance and punk and metal;
slap a label on your tribe
and see if it gets larger.
Eat your feelings, drink your anger,
parade collective sorrow;
buy the right athletic shoe,
outrace a dicey future.
Consume an offered talisman,
invoke a plastic idol;
you are not far from cavelight, friends.
Embrace it as you’re able.
A morning
as cold
as hell is hot;
I’m ready to go
North from here.
The old folks used to say
a dying soul went south;
what does that mean when
I’m already South?
Heading into life?
I doubt it’s colder there
than it is here but
the only way to truly know
is to go and learn. So North
I go from what is supposed to be
the end of the journey,
the last stop on the way. It proves
you shouldn’t believe everything
you’ve been told. It proves
nothing until I get there.
Daylight comes up
over a landscape
of sheets and pillows
and clothing folded neatly
last night to wait
until this morning
to be tucked away.
You remember
how long ago
you saw mountains
that at sunrise looked
just like this room does
right now.
It’s time to get up.
Those clothes aren’t going
to put themselves away.
You rise from bed
with gratitude;
being unable to escape from
memories is how you begin
to pass from the world
and you wake up grateful
for memories,
however mundane,
that are yet to be made.
and it’s time to fade away from it.
Time to stand and soar
into the sky-past.
Knowing when to go
is half the challenge. The other half
is going. Taking flight.
It’s ok, you tell yourself.
Everyone left behind will get over it.
You’ll have risen to your occasion,
they will rise to theirs
when the time comes. It’s
how it’s done. One thing:
make sure they understand
that the Work, for you, was never
about spilling your guts.
It was about keeping them in place.
It was about getting to the point
where you could leave it all behind
and rise above, intact
if not truly whole.
It was about not being gutted by living.
Dark Matter 