Before sunrise
you wake up to suspicions
that you are not the same person
you were at bedtime last night;

you don’t feel as you did then;
your dreams were absent or broken;
you slept like a dead fish,
or a soldier slain in war.

You don’t think the same things
you did last night;
you weren’t as marvelous then;
you changed your morning routine
and did last night’s dishes before breakfast.

You ranted at the cat, wishing he was a dog;
ranted at the dog, wishing he was a person;
gently chided yourself for the shouting
so early, afraid of the tone it might set
for the day and you saw yourself
as a lump on a log, on fire
among a field of old tires.

Impatient, you wait
for sunrise to change the day
to what you expected;
you are helpless as you wait
and marvelous as you wait
and doomed to a life you never asked
to happen, not at all;
every little occurrence comes up
as a tell on your remaining game
to remain the same;
did you imagine this
would be the result —

that you might wake up in a room
from a poem written long ago,
a poem you wrote when you
were alive and thrumming intensely
to the corresponding live world?

You wake up
and you are someone else —
except you aren’t truly someone else
but the same — sad old man
losing weight and hair,
millions of memories
going swiftly away;
but despite all that
you are the same.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

I shift my position in bed
a little. One word or perhaps
a compound word drifts in:
“gear-friendly.” What the hell
that means is obscured
by a pressing need to get up
and piss;

I think of all the places
I need to be today, think of
all the places where I can’t go;
think of having to think about
shifting gears thoughtfully
to get there. I think, don’t
feel anymore. My feelings
are not mine to play with
anymore.

“Gear-friendly”
comes swimming back up
like a dying fish. Damned
if I understand it. I feel nothing
about it.

I pour myself
another cup of coffee. I think again
about everyone I know
who has died recently — shit, there
I go, thinking again. I will feel
someday, but not today; there
are too many thoughts
crowding in, all pleading,
“pick me! Pick me!”

as if it mattered in some way,
some fashion unknown to me;
as if it mattered at all
what a mind-cripple like me
thinks about first thing
in the morning instead of
just getting up and getting
to it; shifting those friendly gears
to back up
and then shifting up
to go forward;
forever shifting up and up;
shifting up
without thought.

Just go.

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

I listened to a recording
this morning

of ambient sound,
almost an hour’s worth.

Just sat with it; just let it
wash me with love and affirmation.

Afterward I turned back
to the world

and it felt much the same —
full of dread, fear, occasional

words of someone else
that seemed to take hold

of a moment; let it
wash over me with pain.

I’m untouched, I think,
by anything these days.

I’m a broken man,
I’m a whole one,

content to be shifted
from one pole to the other.

Now it’s time, I think,
to go outside

and see
what world I live in now:

the wash of peace,
the wash of war.

I can choose, I guess,
either one.

It excites me,
the freedom of choice.

It frightens me,
the slavery of choice.

It is no different
to me —

balance, equilibrium,
evenness of choosing — so

I open
the door.

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

Got a book coming out
There’s a film due for release
An album hitting the stores

and after all that
you will still have no idea
who I am

The universe stalled on me
long ago and left me here
with a head full of floating ideas

and no place to set them down
I am a near-sighted clown to the masses
good enough for entertainment

not good enough for action
You don’t know me as I struggle
with a poem and a movie and a song

all the time saying
not that not that not that
Like speaking in rabbit tongue

I’m frightened all the time
Mouthing platitudes till I can run
back to a hiding place

in plain sight
of the gates of the town folk
but under their superficial gaze

Far below I sit and make my work
I shake my head each time I finish one
A poem with no gut

A film without a brain
A song on an album full of air
You don’t know me at all

but you think you’ve got enough
Or maybe you do and I’m the fool
Or maybe none of us know a thing

but I got an album coming out
A movie waiting on the imminent shelf
A book ready for release

I am not in that straining and tenseness
Will likely die before any of it is clear
Will likely become a laugh before that

Not that Not that Not that
The chant goes out over fields
I close my eyes and smile and nod

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

I said I wouldn’t post a poem
today, and I lied;

said I would not say a bad thing about
the President, and
I lied;

did not complain about
a dearth of songbirds outside,
and I told the truth — at least I think so,
as the windows are all closed
but I don’t see them in their
accustomed places or hear
the songs and calls;

I said so much
about today, but it has not
come to pass at all.

I sit here in the moment
between a poem and the now
of realizing its wasted chance,
and I should weep for it
and the time I’ve wasted

but I’m listening for birds
and hating the President
and all the space
I could have used
for a poem
is lost to me.

Perhaps you could use it?

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

Cup of coffee.
Loose clothing.
Silent radio for once.
Old computer in my lap.
What am I doing?
Oh, not much:

stealing the sun’s fire.
Cradling a lost mother’s child.
Dancing in my head
for pennies thrown
at my feet by an old man
years after he did the same.

Making it up as I go along:
this poetry, this bald repetition
of words. This verse
unlike the last one, I hope.
This is what’s left to me
beyond coffee and praise;
beyond me and within me at once,
or part of some entity beyond me.

Now I can’t bear the itchiness
of my clothes or anything else
within my reach, so
I will drink my coffee
before it cools and get up,
slowly, putting down the computer
and then picking it up to return it
to its place after that
as I can’t rise with it
for fear of … what?
Dying with it in my hands?
How would that be any different from failing?
I don’t ask the right questions, I guess.
After the struggle when I return to my seat
I feel electric,
satisfied till the next morning comes
in the sweet time between summer and fall.

Here is where I have to stay until
tomorrow, until the next time
I have a need to progress —
although I don’t know what progress
I have to make toward anything.

I wil turn up the radio and sing
tunelessly along with
whoever the singer is
when I get back, make some headway
toward another time;
think about stealing more fire
from the sun, I guess.
Cradle another child
in my burnt arms.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Lord, yes —

we have been remiss
in our duties;

have believed in
cheats and follies;

Lord, yes —

we clung to our falsehoods,
did ritual, rote things;

we followed in the footsteps
of our fathers until we reached
the end of their road.

When all was said,
when all was done,
we turned around in our tracks
and looked back and said
what we thought, and
what we said was nothing,
and what we said meant nothing.

Then we saw the earth as a jewel,
as an entire gem;
and we stopped believing and began,
again, to move into it
as if it had a door
and we had become unbound
once again, and we were free.

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