I say, what do I say?
War is not the answer; it lends itself
to big dirt and blood and suffering.

Love is not the answer; it lends itself
to soft touches and the betrayal
of sideline glances.

Hate is not the answer; enough to be said
of hate’s feints and subtleties
to be distrusted.

Indifference is not the answer; enough to be said
of its equally subtle responses
and air of sublime uncaring.

So what do I say? I say nothing —
I spread my hands out like there’s a sheet before me,
a sheet to lay over my bed like snow.

I say nothing — I lie down on the unsoiled sheet
only I can see and prepare to sleep
until the sheet changes under me.

War, hate, love, indifference — all slip away
like the sheet bearing blood of memory,
clouds of real life;

I sleep, forgetting
my promises, my duties,
my responsibilities; I just sleep

like a villain on the second night after
I have laid aside my bones,
your bones, your concerns.

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

I wish I had a wall to lean on.
I wish it stood tall among the pines.
I wish it held back something;
maybe it does.
I don’t know what it could be.
It’s that good at its job.

I wish for so much I do not have.
I wish for peace, a shower, a moment to think.
I might get the last one, maybe the last two;
I know better than to expect peace
from anything in this world;
it’s a crock full of imagining, of lost causes.

I wish the coffee would migrate to my lips.
I wish the wall I dreamed of earlier would vanish
before the hot migration of the hot liquid up
and up, out of the mug, into me.
I bet neither of us knows how real that might be
but we keep wishing for it — a form of quiet, perhaps.

I wish I indeed had this wall to lean on but in the vision
it keeps falling, devolving to rubble, vanishing.
I wish its ghostly history mattered more
than it does. The history makers have swept it aside
and sweated it out. It’s gone, gone for good
or at least for my lifetime; nonetheless its symbol stands

among my souvenirs, my tchotchkes, my
useless rebellion of artifact; more useless
memories. I wish I had more than memories,
in fact. Wish some were still coming true
but I close my eyes against them. I drink the cooling coffee
with a tear in my eye. Useless. Useless.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~“
onward,
T

When your dead come up to you,
sidle their way inside you, you have
a choice — not always obvious but still
a choice to keep them or let them go.

You don’t feel them inside you
the same way all the time, you know.
You don’t feel their surprising teeth
and can’t know the difference. No,

you need to speak of the dead
more calmly. You need to talk
gently to them, ask them
with compassion to let you go

and after a while, a short while
or a long time — they do. You sit back
and let them go and calmly watch them
as they go and then turn back

to your own affairs, to the business
of your busy life. You are unbothered
by the departure and after a while,
you sleep unbothered as well.

You are their ghost, after all.
You left this life long ago for theirs.
You are a ghost of their lives
and will be forgotten when they go

into whatever
they go into
as you will be forgotten
when you go.

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

( for Logan)

I’m honored to be
part of your sunset,

touched to be gently
ushered forward to the breach

of this road — not to go alone
but to be assisted as I go;

moved that we are together
on this though I am unsure

as to who ushers who
on this road, pushing quietly

yet inexorably toward a closure
that will send one of us forward

and one alone and back
the way we came. I am touched

and honored by the sunset itself,
finally; that those level warm rays

strike you almost as much
as they do me; you go forward

into them — my memory fails me
and I don’t know who goes forward,

who goes backward, which of us
stays in place, watching the other one go;

I only know darkness
holds off long enough

as I, certain at last, turn back from it
into fading light.

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

You speak to me
and I realize suddenly
I don’t know what that means,
what it might mean
over the course
to the end of this road.

Maybe some day
I’ll be replaced. Maybe
you won’t feel a need to speak.
Maybe I’ll even have no need
to listen to it. We will sit
in comfortable quiet

with nothing to say. Or maybe
there will be another person
sitting here in my place,
seat warm from my ass, wondering
what happened, how he got here?
That’s kinda sorta how I got here.

How I got here…it’s a puzzle.
after all. One minute I was elsewhere,
remember; next minute I was here
and not a clue of how it happened.
But I carry on the conversation
as if I was here all along…

One minute I’m here
in my place and the next minute
the someone I am not
is not here now and I’m still over there
in whatever place you and I agree to call
that place.

I don’t know where I am.
I nod and smile in the right places.
I touch your arm with my right hand.
I touch my own face with my left hand.
Feeling nothing, I sit back.
I am in my element: comfortable quiet,

or so I’ve been told.

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