the hatred felt
by those of a certain ilk
is understandable
if you step back
and think of a world
where everything was promised
to all of a certain ilk
and some had it delivered
while others kept chasing it
but all believed in it

the hatred felt
by those of a certain ilk
is understandable
when you step back and see
that what they were promised
were stolen goods
and they never knew that or
chose to ignore it
so when those who were robbed
finally got a chance to point out
what was taken
it is understandable that those
in unlawful possession
might be pissed

the hatred felt
by those of a certain ilk
is understandable
if you step back
and see how that anger
is misdirected by the original thieves
away from themselves
and toward those now demanding
some consideration for their losses

those of a certain ilk
hate for a cause
written on gauze
a bandage over the thin skin
of deep wounds
whose source they will not imagine
because of the horror
they will be forced to own
if they do

the hatred felt
by those of a certain ilk
is understandable
even pitiable
forgivable to a nearby point
but not excusable
when it is maintained
by willful ignorance
and a stubborn love
of apparently useful
myth

if you want to hate
the haters
be sure of them
before you begin
for if you see only
the front
you will miss
those of a certain ilk
standing behind them
smiling at you
all knowing
and certain of the power
that derives
from hate

Your opinion seemed right to you
and then
shit started. Soon,
it happened:

Nazi,
says the anonymous poster,
you’re a
Nazi
for suggesting such a thing.

By now, you’ve forgotten what you actually said.

Nazi,
you respond,
you’re the
Nazi
for bringing
Nazis
into this.  Trying to scare me
into shutting up by invoking
Nazis,
that’s a
Nazi
thing to do.

Nazi Nazi!
chimes in a
supporter of your enemy
(and what was this about again?)

Nazi! Nazi Nazi Nazi!
NAZI!

Damn, but it feels good
to bring them up in connection
with anything at all —
baseball card futures, Area 51,
that Palin woman, hairstyles,
the latest incarnation of garage rock.

Damn, it feels good
to hear that marching
in the world outside.
Almost like your blood
demands it from you.
Almost like it doesn’t matter
where you were headed
as long as you eventually
get to a point

where that word can roll off your outstretched fingers.

Dawn hasn’t warmed us
for months.  It might as well
have stayed dark all winter
for all the credit we gave the sun
for coming up, for if there’s no warmth
in sunlight, why have it?  That’s been
the prevailing opinion this year,
as it is every year.  Even as the days
have gotten longer,
we have continued to complain.

The hyacinths
know better, as always,
and have been employing
that incremental heat
for their own ends
for quite a while now,
trusting in
the inevitability of what was to come. 
Today, or yesterday, they broke through
beside the walk.

Their sudden arrival tells us
that it’s time for spring at last,
and all at once mornings feel downright
balmy.  We’re stupid this way,
forgetting every winter
that spring will come,
and that we’ll be surprised
when it happens.

Thank God
for the hyacinths giving us a heads up,
or we’d look even dumber
with our mouths hanging open
a few weeks from now
when, as always,
everything else pops.

Everywhere I go
I carry two tinfoil wrappers
twisted shut,

each one the size of
a pack of gum,
each one holding part of

a collection
rendered in miniature,
a collection of all my friends.

The dead ones
in the right hand pocket,
the live ones in my left.  The dead ones

on my favored side,
the live ones carried offhand
as a backup.

When I need
to say something deep
I take a packet out

and open it, pop one,
freshen my speech
with another voice.

When I’m done,
I carefully pull that friend
from my tongue

and rewrap
for future use.  None of them
have ever complained

so I have to believe
it’s ok with them
that I use them this way.

The dead ones
have more time free of the pocket.
I think it’s good for them

to get out and be heard
even if their flavor
often darkens my words.

They at least
make me feel good.  The live ones
don’t come out as often

as they are frequently
unruly and crack my voice
a bit.  We can speak for ourselves

and be known that way,
they grumble. Therefore
I sometimes

take them all out at once,
put them all in my mouth
and shut up while they

talk to me from within.  I’m
kept informed that way, and so
think to honor them

by giving my full, sour attention
to their tastes.  I still prefer to
let the dead ones work for me while running

my tongue over my teeth
and recalling
what the live ones have taught me,

what they continue to teach me.
But I will not shift them
to the right hand pocket —

too risky.
The dead ones arm me better
with their settled opinions

that are sharper for having had
greater use.  It’s been suggested that
I mix the two, but I don’t know what

my reliably dead friends
who adore me would say
if they were to hear from those who know me now.

I don’t even know you, they might say.
I’m not sure I ever did.  And I’d hate that.
So I keep them tightly wrapped

and close at hand, the known quantity
always in easy,
subconscious reach.

Dead friends in the right hand pocket —
quick to come to my rescue
and make my words clean and fresh

with their voices frozen and cool
as breath mints.
Live ones in my left —

astringents, bitter favors
to be taken sparingly
for fear I might have to speak the truth.

when the hose fails
and leaking antifreeze
pours greasy green
onto the snowy roadside

when the cold crunches
inside your nose
as you wait for the tow
that is forty -five minutes off

when you try to calculate
how much damage this will do
to your rent still in arrears
but your fingers are too numb to count

when you’d cry if you could
but you’re cried out
when you’re alone and cold
and there’s no art in your thoughts

except for the simple art
of fixing a hose in the dark with no tape
or replacement coolant
the art you’d wished you had learned

and prepared for in advance
but it’s too late and you’re stuck
awaiting the mercy of a better artist
when he comes and shows you mastery

this is no time for you to slink
into a blank book and create a world
where things like this don’t happen
to anyone particularly like you

but there are people out here
who will lay down money to bet
that this is exactly what you will do
that you will make something precious of it

if you ever get out of here
without frostbite or breakdown
and return to your insulated life
full of what ifs and should haves

and that it will happen again
and more than once
because you only ever learn enough
to arm your self against aftermath

never enough to prevent the disaster
never enough to stop the leaks
from occurring
never enough to be anything but useless

for any practical life