the long way around, that’s what i live for;

the road that does not go directly home,
which passes things i would not see if i were in a hurry,
which leads into silver midnight woods and fields,
which moves through neighborhoods of silent homes
that here and there shine yellow even at two AM,
which reveal the deer and the skunk in transit,
which make me dream of journeys that will not end;

the long way around that is nonetheless terminal,

the road that eventually loses me,
which does in fact come to a stop at the front door,
which does in fact make me pause before i get out of the car,
which makes me wonder if i should have kept driving
even though i know there was no place left to see,
which makes me wonder if there was ever a different way at all,
which makes me close the door and sit for a while longer

before i go in to sleep,
before i start upon the road again.

wednesday morning

wake up
on a wednesday morning and put on
some rough shoes, because this is the day
you’re going. don’t wait for the weekend,
don’t wait for next week; pick up in the middle and go
because only an abrupt break is going to hurt enough
to make you feel how good it’s going to be
when you get where you’re going.

wake up.
don’t say goodbye. all your family, found or born,
wants you to be happy their way
right here, so you pay attention
to the way your boots look by the bedside in the morning,
because they are the best brothers you’ll ever have
and they will carry you where you need to go.

wake up,
turn away from the loves of your life,
give up their ghosts. give up your voice
that used to crack at midnight when you called out a name
you couldn’t remember the next day.
pick a new voice from the rack.
slip it on like a clog you can kick off at will. try on any pair
that suits you, and get to walking. get to running. get to flying.

wake up,
burst off from the earth,
and go orbit upon orbit around the sun.
then, turn on your heel and come back down.
founder or triumph, slink or strut.
no one’s going to believe you did it for love
and not fame or spite,
so you might as well do it anyway.
once you’re all in hell,
there will be time enough then
to hear them mumble about you.

try to use something
more gentle than
guns and fire
to describe the way
you feel after a shared
sleepless night —
it is not always a struggle
no matter how sore you are
in the morning

there are things to be said
for sunrise and cool bedroom air
things to be said for short sleep
and long waking

this talk of taking aim
and waiting for
the smell of smoke
may make a cocked and loaded
initial sense
but not for what happens when
the guns are laid aside
when the duel is done

there is a
peace between us
that was always there
waiting to be
observed

mention that you’re not writing poetry, and…

this, by the way, is most assuredly NOT a suicide poem. 🙂
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

revolver

in love with the potential
for the shattering, and not
always prepared to make it happen,

nonetheless you listen
holding your breath
until you hear it
turn until
it clicks into place
with a solid “chunk”
that sounds like fate.

there is a moment like that,
available and explosive,
in every life —
in some lives there are more than one.

but the way you handle the trigger
is the key to how much you’re like
the next guy:

set it down or
pick it up?

steady hand or with a tremble
in the touch?

squeeze, jerk
or pull?

and —

where do you point the thing
in case it does go off?