My old fingers say
a light bulb ought
to be hot when on,
but the twisted knob
in this bedside lamp
glows without.

My poor brain
can’t get behind
how the speed of
one person’s offhand thought
now shimmers through
a billion screens at once.

When I am gone
I’ll be at least
a bit relieved that
as my consciousness fades,
it will do so as it always has
from the savanna till now.

Also, I am thrilled
to state that my old heart
(as bloated and clogged as
it likely is) can still race
and rock me when I see
the eyes of one I love.

If it is the heart
that kills me it will do so
in the most ancient way:
through overexcitement.
Nothing obsolete about dying
for such a lovely thing.

Sing the way you do when abandon
has just pulled the bit from your mouth
and you’ve begun to dream without reins.

Sing the broken bell of the body
and of the careful hand that palms it,
attempting to shelter it from greater harm.

Sing the failing ring of its last note
and of the ear cupped to catch it 
before it’s gone forever.

Then sing the return, the rebirth,
the orbit swinging around. Sing the bloom
gone to seed, of the seed gone to fire.

Sing again the demise, sing again
the rebirth, sing the emblem of circularity,
the zero completing the round.

Sing the blue-throated love song,
dense jewel of the sun working
on behalf of misted concrete longing.

Sing this, this dark-tattooed work song,
faceted chant, revelation; sing this gospel
of opening, this echo of purest belonging.

If only the night would stop
arousing me —

if the dark was not so
filled with pinch and worry,
and the room was not so
armored and bristling —

if I could come back down to earth
and ignore how comfort is stolen
by the smallest sounds,

stop attempting to levitate
above this hard bed
to avoid the cycling through
bad sleep and horrid waking
that leads to living each day in haze —

if I could live each day in clarity and
vanish into dreams and sleep at night —

I might be considered normal,
I might feel less twitch and twinge,

I might be someone I could trust
and depend on to carry me through,

I might not need to do another odd thing
in pursuit of peace ever again,

I might not be this man,
might be another, or might not be at all,

and that keeps me up at night
wondering about how much of this
I am destined to take, supposed to take,
meant to take and was built to take
before not taking it
turns me something I am not,
robs me of the most pure bit of me.

Chewing
ancient hard taffy,
three meals a day.

Climbing the local
Dead Horse Hill
wherever I am.

Waking before dawn
to wrestle a fat
and angry angel.

These are the lives for me:

tough ones
where the easy stuff
takes forever to do
and the impossible presents itself
as regularly as church.

I’ve learned a trivium
fraught with weight 
and difficulty.
It’s all I know.

Some of us are meant
to be ground underfoot.
Some of us are meant
to wear out.
Only a few are bent
to loving that fate;
I bear that curvature
in my wasting frame
and don’t know why
but I trust the universe
to have it right,

and when the last of me
crumbles the remains
will serve some purpose,
I’m certain, for the fat
and angry angel
who will crush me
and then lift me 
with disdain
from where I’ve mingled
with dust.

I like this era
of quaint new words
that help me explain 

how I see each new day
as a hardened target
against which
I have weaponized
my smile

how I follow therefore
in my daily routine
all necessary
hazmat protocols
keeping a safe 
distance from others

how I live on such
a high alert level
prepared
for all threats

and how the occasional
preemptive strike
is necessary to preserve
my freedom

Admitting failure,
complete collapse,
Ernest “Fatman” DiCicco
spends his last days
hoping for a warm spell
before first snowfall.

He looks over 
all he’s done and 
gives away most
of his best things,
his favorite guitars, 
his pens, his knives.

Burns his letters, 
every book he’d ever 
made a note in, 
all the cheap jewelry
he’d loved, clothing
and caps and gloves.

When all is done,
Ernest begins to starve himself —
Fatman changing before our eyes,
such peace in his  — 
will not speak of what he’s thinking,
and for once we won’t ask.

When he’s gone, we won’t notice
the absence for more
than a moment.  Why be hypocrites?
We have always wished he would go away
and once he has, everything’s
fine, everything’s for the best.

If it’s not
wind, or storm,
it may be meteor,
may be earthquake. 
May be 
downfall, may be
uprising;

all I know is that
today feels 
like it’s violently moving
while I am not,

that I’m
less than a second
from tumbling over

still believing I’ll be able
to somehow hover while
apocalypse is happening —
while underneath that,

knowing even more deeply
that I will fall
as all else falls;
earlier, farther, 
and harder than some,
later and softer than others,
but I will 
fall.  

Mid-fall, delusional
but happy,
almost levitating,
I believe I may yet fly
in spite of my fear of
that imminent hard landing —
in fact, it may be
that I fly
because I know
it’s coming.

1.
No more, I said to the people.
For me, no more Battles.

Leave me to the scattering mice
and the enveloping sunset.  

Leave me to the prettiest parts
of this gruesome world.

All my people are
clamoring for release or reinforcements,

but I say, no more.  Insistence tugs at me
when I see all the blood but I say, no more.

Shame grips me like a barnacle,
scarring my scarred flesh, and I say, no more;

guilt rips a gash in me
and plunges both filthy hands in, and I say,

no more; rage pours out and cleans me
and stains me, but I say, no more.

Take me to a creek and an uncomplicated mating
of good mammals just being good mammals.  

Let me side for once with not doing anything
but retiring from Battles.  Let me hand back my medals

and let the people hate me for inaction, 
for I am old and less inclined to war than once before.

Just let me lie.  Let me lie a while longer.
Let me lie, I beg you, let me lie about some more.

2.
The Battles are so large, and I am so small.
The Battles are so long, and I am so tired.

The Battles, in blackface and headdress, 
in rape gear and pesticide incense,

will not let me go.  The Battles,
armored in tongue lashing and armed

with rough justice, with pure oppostion as holy writ,
with the explosive love of fire and crush,

will not let me go.  The Battles will not let me go
no matter my age or service.  

If I go, I die;
if I stay, I die; 

so why not let me lie a little longer,
let me lie here a little longer;

Battles, let me lie; if all that happens
is that I die as a result a little later,

let me lie.  You’re going to win anyway,
and this empty night for once is so beautiful

I truly cannot stand to turn
back into the struggle.

A fine and lasting
conflict between
my fixed-fate stars and
my taste for free will
is all I have
to work out with
when it comes to making
a muscle of my soul.

Try to flex
as much as I can
between letting go
and digging in,
hoping that
when I’m forced
at last to choose,
any choice
will be easy.

A hot knot
in my core, then,
is my indicator
that I’ve been putting in
work.  Stepping
where the struggle
is taken in with
the oxygen.
Crunching
past pain
to get myself
lean; sometimes left
wanting, other times
full up to the brim.