Dark Matter

Gray day outside, cars starting up
and receding as they leave you
alone. You wave at them from
behind the shades and fool yourself
into thinking it matters, though you know
it does not.

Alone; none of the furniture
matters, none of the floors matter,
none of anything at all matters
one bit. You could sit here
for hours and no one would know;
no one would have even a reason
to care.

Turn the lights off and do not
show yourself to the people.
They won’t trouble themselves
with knowing. They won’t even
trouble themselves with not knowing
you are drowning in their oblivion.

Something was left out,
was allegedly inevitable,
was supposed to happen.

Outside it’s getting
inexorably brighter.

It must mean something.

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

One small victory —
did not spill tea sitting down —
one win starts the day.
It is solid, hard.
Another will come

without a warning
or a sign — comfort ignored
except now, perhaps.
Now is perfect; sip
a little tea. Rest.

Upon rising, sun.
Upon sleeping, you learn the moon
keeps watch as a sun
but weaker, cooler.
Close your eyes and rest.

So much to learn, still.
So abundant, that learning,
should you follow close.
Here is learning too,
in this cup of tea. Rest.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

A day like flat ginger ale
and it tastes the same: no spark,
no bubbles, barely a ghost
of its past.

I am like that, too. Today
I am a ghost of my past.
My hands don’t feel well,
my feet feel poorly,
they are just a smidgen
of ill health compared to
my memory and emotion,
of which the less said —
don’t recall the rest of the words
in that song, like all the others
running through my limp head
all the time.

A river ran through my hometown
growing up, brown foam gathered
in the corners of the banks, the water
smelled crusty and metallic. I hear
it’s better than it used to be. I hear
they have prettied up the banks. I hear
many things, many and varied things
I hear and see; I am going home soon

to see how the river has changed, to see
if it bubbles, is it flat, and what does
my memory do if it’s gone — if it has become
a ghost of itself, repeating small words
in fading light?

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

The sun is angry this morning.
No — the sun smiles down at me today. No —
the sun is doing what the sun does, impartial
to my needs, or anyone else’s needs
or desires. Irrelevant to desires
or needs entirely, in fact.

The sun
does what it does, and the earth
quakes or is benevolent or doesn’t care, and oceans
rise and fall and do not care, regardless
of how I see them or don’t see them
from here.

From here I could close my eyes,
block my ears and nose, give up my senses
and think dark and lovely thoughts
and postulate a different world of clouds and seas
and above all the raging, indifferent sun,
and none of them would care.

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

It’s a warm day for January
and after I do my morning chores
I sit and do little for an hour or two
until I get up and do a little more.

Meanwhile the inherent spark
of memory and loss of same
continues to haunt me until
I get up and do a little more.

I could get up. I could make
breakfast. I could do all kinds
of small things, vary them between
crucial and trivial. I could always

get up and do a little more
but I have no memory to speak of
and my left hand is bad between
the wrist and the fingers. I can’t

get up and do anything, anything
at all, let alone a little more. Instead
I listen to the birds, the wind, the heat
clicking on and off and on again.

I could get up and do a little more.
In its place I will think about it and sit
still, close my ruined eyes, damning
every thing and the spirit of everything

until I fall asleep, dead to this world
and all others, thinking of a day when
I can do it all and a little more
but it is a day that will not come.

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

I stopped to do the dishes
and suddenly knew I was powerless

I wiped up and cleaned up
and stood back for a second or two
and said six years ago
I would not have said that
Two years ago
I would not have said that
Two years ago
I would not have had the authority
or the grace to ask

There are sparrows outside
who know more than I do
about living their lives
with little fanfare
or thought of relapse
Eating or drinking allowed
Peace from hatch to falling gone
to the ground

I come back from the window
to what is left
Suddenly knew I was powerless
again

After the dishes are done
Fill the paper towel dispenser
and add toilet paper to the supplies

Six years ago
or six months ago
I would not have known the sparrows
and how they fill their space
with nothing except their living
without thought
or so I think

Six seconds ago
I stood in the center of the room
Envied the sparrows
Shrugged at them and moved on
without a thought except
mourning the power lost

then shrugging that off too
I ceased envying the sparrows
for six seconds
no more
no less

then began again

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

As if the puzzle of a book
could be solved without reading,

as if you could pick it up
and know the contents,

as if you could lift it
from the place where it was tossed

and casually leaf through
and gather its gist like a cloud

that passed overhead and everyone else
pointed and stared and said it looked like

a horse or a ship or some old head
of some old woman; as if

the horse neighed and bucked after that
or the ship heaved itself up over

an unseen wave or the old woman
grew long hair and became more lovely

to you; as if any of the changes mattered
more than that and you tossed the book aside

as if the puzzle inside did not matter, not at all,
as if clouds were just foam and mist after all

and clouds of foam and mist did not matter
and any book they resembled did not matter; as if

you had important things to do, more valuable
than transforming the clouds above, more crucial

than sticking your mind to a cloud and making it
matter, even for a second longer than a book.

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