I come from a long line 
of people: some
undoubtedly saintly,
some no doubt abundantly evil;
others certainly
ordinary, full up with faults
and virtues and inconsistency.
I am their son. I carry all within.

I live half
shadowed; in the dark of me 
I lament the lack of light;
I turn to the bright side 
only to flee toward shade;

I am their son.

I have sipped true love
and tenderness
from a skull goblet,
crushed that cup
with a single simpering kiss
and scattered the shards
across seared fields; I come from
a warrior line, a massacre line;

I am their son.

Been drunk with joy while standing
outside in between lightning, hair stiff
on every square of my skin as I looked up
into the light and demanded it take me;
just one of a long suicidal line;

I am their son.

I come from a long line of people:
none have been openly magical,
none have floated away to heaven
from the dirt we are born on. None
sought manna, preferring to dig
drought gardens wherever they were
and scrape together a life.  I come from
a long line of plain and hard;
I see them whenever the mirror
decides to surprise me
with a real moment of reflection;  
see them all behind my drooping eyes
and roughed up skin, my crooked teeth,
my spark, my ash, my loss;
this trophy face is all them.

I am their son.

When my vision shakes
I can sit with it
until it settles. 

When my blood muddies
to sludge, I can sit with it
until it runs clear. But

when my mind crawls
under a dark stone, it drags me
toward suffocation.

I need to save myself
from my mind.  I need to 
find a place to sit without it,

let it go into whatever place
it needs to go, and watch it
sink or rise as it thinks best.

As for the heart, or what we call
by the name of heart, or soul —
I don’t know what that is, if I am

best called by that name,
or if it’s just another part of me
I need to sit with and let be.  

Clear away
what has faded
from importance.

Unpack 
a borrowed comb, 
test it against your thin head.

Replace all
that is known of you
with a bomb.

Do you still matter?
Welcome to a world
of doubt.

Pretend
this makes sense. Try to
drum up support for it,

phone your last friends,
mourn the busy signals
though they taste like

release. Is that rain?
Trot outside and sip.
It’s bitter.  What did you

expect? A promise,
on the record, of 
the stamp of approval?

Look at the wall outside,
sparkling wet. A fresco
of a World War II destroyer.

Painted rudely over
a corner of it, the name
“Susan.”  Do you know

a “Susan?”  You used to.
It’s not a sign, you decide,
but you smile.

I’m here now.

You may not know me
or have ever noticed me
at all, as all I have is
my inside voice
to raise against
this world’s din, 

but I am here and 
this is now. I am saying
what’s true, even if
I am quiet in how
I bring it forward.  

When young, I was
made quiet. My tongue
was bound early
and well by
your custom and
your force:

use your inside voice,
your inside voice, your
inside voice…

and later
I found myself
outside with
no voice for outside
as if it had been planned
that way. (It had been planned 
that way.) Those 
outside
are supposed to be quiet,
supposed to keep silent…

But listen, listen:
I’m here
now.

I’m here now with 
a voice inside doubling
my inside voice, swelling it
toward crescendo
though it’s still
recognizably mine
and I’m telling you:

I’m here now, 
no longer waiting
or holding back;
here now, outside
and speaking loud enough;
here now, hear now,
hear me now — because
I’m not going to 
shout.

I’ve woken up today
wondering why
I am not a dog, because

if I were a dog
I’d be a good one.
Especially if

I woke up as a dog with 
all my memories
of being human.

Damn, I’d say,
at last a chance 
to bite back or sleep

with a wiggling leg
or enjoy a fine scratch —
and a shortish lifespan

to boot, nothing like
these interminable
days as a man with all the

unnecessary expectations
and frowns from other men.
If I were a dog

I’d be cool with other dogs.
I might be neutered or left
intact — either way

I’d be fine.  I’d figure it out
or more likely would just
be a dog without figuring.

I figure too much as it is.
If I were to wake up a dog
I’d remember that,

and head right back into sleep
with all my legs spread wide
and my tongue out and 

it would be just fine. Sunshine
on my belly, and food in the bowl;
if I were a dog, I’d be just fine.

My spine’s 
snake-curved and achy
after a bad night 
on an old mattress.

If someone saw me
from outside and didn’t
know this, they’d say
my walk to the bathroom
seems so casual, so slow;

don’t be fooled.
My pace has less to do with
urgency and more to do with
inability to hustle right now.

Coffee, then Aleve,
and then to work.
It’s a routine, a job,
one hustle I can maintain
and must maintain
and do maintain

as all the rest of my hustle
falls out of me
onto these hard floors
without so much as 
a bounce.