Fell out of bed into
indifferent space. I’m sure

I didn’t know anyone
there, but there were faces

that seemed familiar.
I cried out, I’m falling, falling,

falling out of bed, and I was
pushed back up from below

and pulled back up from 
above. Then, found myself

awake, trying to figure out
what was pillow, what was

mattress, who was below
and who was above and how

was it any of their business
that they should all be awake

at the right time to assist
in that recovery? I’m still

trying to recall those faces
I saw in the liminal world

between falling
and settling back into bed. 

Who cared enough to move me
back into this world? 

May I please know all their names
before I fall again, that I may

greet them one by one and love them
wherever I land next time.

Irving, the big guy from next door
is in basketball shorts
and nothing else
drinking a cold brew coffee
with milk
while sitting on the curb
in front of his building
humming softly. 

Either that or it’s
a pile of trash left from
the pickup yesterday
and a couple of upturned
recycling bins. Maybe
that’s a raccoon, maybe
there are two going through
what’s there and that’s where
the humming is coming from.

Keep the shades down.
Don’t try to determine
what’s true. Sometimes
it’s better not to know.
It’s a city, anything is
possible and usually
many things are true 
at one time here. It’s not
as simple as that God fellow
would like us to believe.

Maybe Irving has always been
just a couple of raccoons
in basketball shorts
humming an Edith Piaf song
in homage to the trash
spread before them
and maybe nature is benign
and malignant at once and 
the whole Good versus Evil thing
was forced upon us
as a restraint against marveling
at complexity?

No, it’s better sometimes to keep
the shades down than to raise them
(even just for a peek) and dispel 
all the joy and enlightenment  
of doubt.

In flames,
as if I were
a forest;
washed away,
as if I were 
a bridge;
shaken to ground
as if I were an old home 
built before
earthquake code. 

Now, you say.
Now you can rebuild.
It’s glorious.
It’s your dream.

I am alone with it, though.
The sheets are drunk
with my sweat
and only my sweat,
and this is not how
I imagined it.

Broken as I am,
on fire as I am,
on the ground as I am,
the flood lapping and rising
up this one hill upon which
I have found myself,

glory and the honest joy
of rebuilding
seem quaint notions 
upon which to rely.

Imagine you
are currently 
breathing pure Hell
directly from a mask
while submerged 
in the cool waters
of Heaven.

Imagine
it is making you more
than ordinarily Evil.

Imagine you have never
in fact been so Evil before 
and you don’t in fact
know for certain
what the purest
most rotten version
of such air 
should feel like.

Imagine
you’ve convinced yourself
that this is the right feeling
to carry into the next world.

Imagine who you will
leave behind. 

Imagine who you will regret
leaving behind. 

Imagine that small regret
turning into self-righteousness. 

Imagine you are breathing pure Hell
and that you now believe 
this is better than pure Heaven.

Imagine the reek of your world on fire
and that you are convincing yourself
that it is not you
but the flames on the tracks
you are leaving behind
on the people you have loved.

Imagine that
the fireworks proclaiming
and celebrating
your misguided vision
of your miserable life

are the perfect backdrop
to accompany your false rear-view
of the Evil you have left behind.

Imagine
you have nothing left to lose
anyway
so why not? 

To plant yourself between
what you are leaving behind
and a new path

is to hold yourself up
as if on crutches
you feel you should not need

but which have somehow
gradually become lodged

under your arms
without you noticing
the process.

Their presence to you
insinuates that
you are edging

toward a failure
of some sort,
mundane or

spectacular,
likely imminent,
possibly inevitable.

You are the between
times. Between
epochs, perhaps.

Crutches
have no roots.
Custom says you

will be moving soon
in one direction or
the other. But

you could defy that.
You could rise.
You could pass into

the earth below.
You could hold your breath
until you expire and vanish.

Or you could
hold fast to where you are
and see what comes to you

there. It doesn’t matter
to the earth if you waver
from side to side,

after all. What’s one more
indecision to the path
of Time, after all?

You’ve been this way
all your life, all through
Time. If you don’t

survive, if you don’t
thrive, it will not matter
to Time. Throw

those crutches down,
then. See what happens.
Nothing binary, perhaps.

Nothing that requires more of you
than waiting and accepting
whatever comes from that.

So.

Button this up.
Close it down.
Straighten the shirt,

tighten the belt
while you’re standing there,
just standing there.

So.

Put
the pieces together.
Make sure they match.

Let’s agree at least
that where they do not match
they complement each other.

Let’s nod in agreement 
over that detail
regardless

of whether or not
the agreement
between us is complete.

Let’s agree to disagree
if we must. You’ve been 
standing there

for more than a while and
certainly you want
to get going.

Been prepping
for this
long enough

and just standing there
must be
chafing. 

So.

Get going. Pay no attention
to the sound of people grumbling
and raging.

That will be irrelevant soon enough.
It’s going to be hard enough without
allowing yourself that aggravation.

Lay yourself down
by the riverside. Don’t worry
about how you look. 

Your clothes match or at least
the colors don’t clash and 
it’s cooler here in the shade.

It’s the last place
on earth that’s cool enough
for comfort. 

Might as well be comfortable.
Might as well get dressed
for success and failure 

as they are
coming to you
in equal measure.

You’ll look good
when they find you. 
You’ll look good. 

So.

No one in the future
will understand this
anyway. Might as well

lie down,
look good,
feel better.

The questions
I have left
fall into
two categories:

unimportant chatter,
or clearing smoke
from a mirror —

how much time?
How much pain?
How much pleasure?
How much joy?
How much sorrow?
Once again, how much time?

Then I go into the backyard
and there’s one reddish squirrel
under the huge maple
in the same shade
where the robins feed,
robins who never come
to the front yard
where the chattering
below the feeders
has been incessant from dawn
through dusk
for all my time.

Would I have been a better man
if I’d seen this earlier, spent more time seeing this?

Why have I stayed in the front room
behind the windows all these years?

And again,
how much time do I have left?