It’s hard to know
what’s right, what’s wrong;
I am just alone
and nothing seems to fit
as it should. It is as if
this world is a frame
for another picture. It is
as if there are lovely jewels
in a ring that are set…just…
off; they play against each other
incorrectly, emerald against
pearl, square ruby wedged
against opal with no fire.
Try as you might
this picture doesn’t frame
and you dig your fingers
into your cheeks, close
your eyes; scream very quietly
as if you could allow this
to take over your sensibility; but
outrage doesn’t work
and you settle for dullness,
for a dampening of all your
drenched senses.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tomorrow, the release of the new book.
Tomorrow, as well, a change in the policies of this page. (Ooooh…scary.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

onward,
T

You haven’t smiled
in weeks. You haven’t
been able to rest.
To imagine this
you would have to be
aligned with a terrifying,
growing sense
of aggravation;
to imagine this,
you’d have to be terminally
frightened of daylight.
You’d have to wake up
in the morning
and wonder why it had stopped
being night. You’d have to
dread the daylight and
when you got up, you would
have to wonder why you aren’t
still part of the bed, still
lying there in the diminishing
darkness until
you went through the motions
and got up.
To imagine otherwise
is not to scream out loud,
full chested, until your lungs
give up and you collapse,
at last, into the arms of
the Saint of Hollers.
She will say smile,
silly terrified man; smile,
and rest.

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

A sad morning song
the trumpet hasn’t begun
to play. I know them both
all too well.

My thumbs
twitch with knowledge
but I don’t know yet what
I should play — should I even use my thumbs?

Stare at them useless
as oiled meat hanging
on the rack at the Polish deli
I go to once on a blue moon morning,

generally after
playing my heart onto the floor.
I sing them in the car,
not weeping a little.

Driving home
having bought nothing
I waste a little time, then
a little more.

A Grateful Dead song
comes on the radio as I turn off
the stereo and step free of the car:
“till the morning comes…”

Now I wanna dance sprightly
up the stairs
and forget the song
I first heard at the market.

I wanted to hear
a trumpet.
I wanted to cry
for the sound.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Onward,
T

On Tuesday morning
the sun flashed purple for
a second or less but
I saw it transform the world
around it, and it was good.

A simple moment, almost
easy in its derivation
from the complexity I’d grown
to believe was inherent
in the nature of things,
but it was good. Almost

a lie, almost a fib even
told straightforwardly enough
you could honestly swear by it
though you had not seen it yourself;
you would find a way to agree
with it. It was good.

After all, the sun does not change
every day and on the days it does
I know I have to believe in it;
even for a fraction of a second,
the sun turned the world purple
and you and I were bound to it
even though you did not see it
directly.

Marvelous sun —
for a piece of holy time this was
a violet world, no matter
how you saw it, no matter
your experience of it and it
was good. 

““““““““““““““““““““`
onward,
T

Puissant means
powerful.

Someone’s made an offer
of a word to choose
in place of a more common
word. Someone’s
got it in for the speaker
in a high-test way
and now he or she’s
gonna get it.

Now
I have to choose.

It’s such a minute thing, choosing
these choice words. Puissant.
Powerful. I am neither.
Living among the islands
I don’t get to talk much.
I get to think, and honestly
there’s not much talking involved
in that.

So I don’t say much.
Smile, nod, move on. Keep
thinking, though. Tap my cane
to the cadence. Wait
my turn.

It may not come again but
it may, and I will be ready —
puissant, powerful.
Ready.

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