It skitters past
quickly enough
to make me wonder
if I saw it.  

I have always trusted
my senses.
If I think I saw something,
I probably did.

I tear into the dark corner
to find it.
There’s nothing there —
time to stop trusting my senses?

Or is it my execution
that’s lacking?  
Did I miss it?
Was I too slow?  

Did I see
something
that can disappear
at will,

and I’m
just behind
the sensory
learning curve?

Did I —
against all odds —
imagine it?  
Or perhaps

I possess
newly broken eyes,
and what I saw
crossed my retina 

from within.  
Anything’s possible, now
that I have come
to this age.

On the floor
I rock on my knees,
thinking about how much
getting up is going to hurt —

it does, always,
lately.  Maybe I’ll lie down
right here and see if
I can see that mouse.

If I catch him,
if he comes sniffing around me,
I’ll be here.  Waiting. 
What I do best, now. 

1.
the gun
the picture of the gun
the movie of the gun
the theater of the gun
the toy gun
the gun as toy
the toying with the gun
the gun toying
the gun’s toy
the toy discarded
the toy weeping
the toy guarding and guarded
the toy erupting
the toy deceased

2.
hair along the arms rising tingling
who brushing who with air and scent
hides coming alive

this thing needs a name
so they call the new life love
love in the hair along the arms
love on their hides

but really
eventually 
same old
same old
same old
lives 

3.
that weed’s gonna kill ya

when it doesn’t — AH
what roads open

4.
God
or a sandwich
offered at the right moment
and 
BANG

zealot

5.
I had to do this, didn’t I?
 
 

Didi stutters.

I knew her
when she didn’t.

I know 
who made her stutter,
made her shy.
I know what he did.

I didn’t do
what I should have done
when I found out,

so I guess
I helped
to start her stuttering too.

I guess I wasn’t a man then,
or maybe I was.  

Maybe I 
still am not one, or maybe
I still am.  Maybe

“being a man”
means
brooding about 
being a man,

instead of just
being a man 
differently.

Don’t judge me
by Didi, stuttering
and shy — 
it’s hard to be a man.

That’s what i said, it’s hard
to be a man these days
when men are so not good at
being men —

I said it, yeah.
You heard me —

did I stutter? 

A confident, satisfied,
perfectly still man with his lover’s head
on his chest while they sleep — 
really, how many houses around here
look like that inside?  How many
truly happy beds are nearby?

Don’t ask.  You’ll tear yourself that way.

Think instead
about the moonlight 
on this night 
after the beaver moon.
Think about how
bright color inevitably 
went a little gray
under the beaver moon, 
but it’s still there.  

Think about red, and yellow,
and how they are still there. 

At me, looking.  Say, did I
muscles have, ever?
Was there anything
uneaten? Did I mother
a thing, father a thing
worth any damn?
Hardly a damn at all.
Sat me down instead and wrote
poems of fat and second hand
and not me and here we go tomorrow,
not now.

It shows.

Now, pear-man,
pale freak I am.  Rager,
sadder, so complete in some
potato sack way (empty, sag,
writing on the walls).  Open
to the lies of stardom yet
nearby, all I gotta do is
reach.  No, untold is how
reach doesn’t spell grip —
see how the cramp fingers
bend only enough to claw at,
not hold?  And I’m poor, not broke.  Broke
is today, poor is tomorrow, is all tomorrows.
Make broke often, turns to poor.  

And still, can belief
happen for anyone
who sees this?
It’s a poem gets writ,
not a plan.  It’s words, damn
them — hot little breaths all
done as all I can.  All I can,
what with no muscles and straight fingers
and no plan and all poor and all that —

You say, do something, please,
we all sick of you.  I am,
me too.  Maybe a little
more than you?  I keep
at it, do it like a job
I can’t retire away from,  
grouch water cooler or no.

Used to add value, though —
at me, look, please. 
Give me proof it meant a little more
than a pear in a mirror, fermenting,
spilling, going. 

She is thinking again
about how not to die, ever. 
(As it was yesterday, as it will be
tomorrow.)

Who isn’t?
she wants to know.  Who’s not
figuring it out or at least fretting
about it?  Maybe that 
Goddamn Dalai Lama?  
I hate that guy, y’know,
because he might get there
without trying.  

Peace,
she says,
folds herself into 
a lotus pose 
with a snarl.  

How not to die,
ever.  Have to get that right,
and soon. 

You are composed
of how many stories?

If your answer is six or more,
I despair for you.

If your answer is three to six,
I worry for you.

If you say two,
I will remember you.

If you say one,
I will embrace you.

If you say you do not know,
if you say you are made of none,

I will tell you: you are One.
I will turn you to your First Blank Page

and say, write it here.
Somehow tell that One

as soon as you can,
as clearly as you can,

something depends on it,
something close and dark and dear.

Once in a while 
I have blood in my mouth
upon awakening.
It’s good for you, I tell myself.
Full of iron.  

And once in a while
I have a blocked right ear upon
awakening.  It’s good for you,
I tell myself, it’s telling you
to focus more on what your heart
has to say.  

Now and then
the left side of my left foot 
has no feeling.  Now and then
I have a long lasting pain
across my upper lungs.  Now and then
I roll out of bed in the middle of the night
four or five times to piss; it’s not even an event 
worht noting anymore.

It’s good for you, good for you, good for you,
I tell myself,  it means your body is getting too old
to fuss over and fix.  Pretty soon you’ll be Pure Mind
and ready to let go.  Think of these disturbances
as the clarions
of a new path.  

Now and then, I ask myself
who I’m talking to.
It’s good for you, I respond,
not to be completely sure
of the sources the little voices call upon. 
Not to know what’s a truth and what’s a 
delusion.  Which pains are killing pains
and which are the clarions of a new path
or how many are both.  

I tell myself
relax, it’s natural;

it’s all good for you,
it’s all good.