Dark Matter

I hate the television
full of lies and rehashed stories
full of bad ads and tired mixtures
of families and couples
growing trees in perfect lawns
with good kids speeding all around
I hate the television
full of shaded tired stories
of good versus evil in the shape of age
coming up from behind us
white haired and salt-shaded
but vigorously walking along beaches
sneaking up to whisper laughter
I hate the television
full of mistakes and half-blooded wistfulness
for another day past
Never a new day or even a moment
Just close your eyes
Isn’t this too familiar or do you not recall
how they sold you once on anything
till you were dancing outside the packie
with a bottle in your hand
dancing outside the dispensary
with a vaporizer in your mouth
dancing outside the abattoir
all the way into the blessing of forgetting
I hate the television
Hate it for its seduction
Hate it for the love it peddles
Hate it for the vision so sharp it holds
I close my eyes
My ruined eyes
My too-honest eyes
Marbles for the playing
by another who whispers
Look at this if the television hurts
Look at this
Pounds my head again and yet and still
until there is nothing to see
and nowhere left on the dial

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

I’m freezing
after spending an hour
outside, locked out
of the house, socks
on my feet, no keys,
no sense of how to get in
or get by, no more
puttering around waiting

to die or something, can’t quite
say die just yet, my heart

pounding like a song,
a drum song, sticks or beaters
of various sorts, the dancers
lined up and me sitting alone
in a blanket, my regalia
brittle on a hanger by the stove
in my father’s house now

and me in sweats now, socks
on my feet, no coat, this is how
I will be found, memorialized
as a dumbass nondescript old man

who forgot his keys, left the cat
to handle things all alone, left
the words behind to murmur
of his faults and his triumphs
and more —

of his ordinary living
of his ordinary life and his death
on the back porch listening to
a cold wind, the cars, his slowing
frantic breath.

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

Slim and slow
as a fat mistake
pretending to another
being, another guise.

I take a step into it
as wary as ever,
thinking I may yet
turn away.

I’m caught, though.
Don’t know how
to get away from it,
though I don’t yet grasp

the fullness of
what it is. The only way
is to go through it,
so I resolve to go through

the slim snake of it,
the fat mistake of it,
with a shrug and a laugh.
It’s the way of it,

the route left by
ancients and moderns alike.
To snake your way through.
To come out the same but changed.

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

Do laundry, eat breakfast,
do dishes, ponder the coming
mail; play guitar and last of all
work on a poem, at least maybe
a piece of one.

That’s my day
and it’s not even eight thirty
and I can’t think of anymore
that needs doing or wants me
to do it. I could read something
or I could close my eyes
against it all, a last defense
to prevent tears or screams.
I could write more, I suppose.
but it takes more energy
than I can spare —

I close my eyes.
One of these days that
will be enough. Today
it’s not. The clothes
need tthe dryer. My eyes
need a dryer. What do I need
apart from doing
what needs to be done?

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

I don’t really think
I have anything to say
about anything

It’s a void up here
and I’m comfortable
not thinking about it

except that there are people
beyond me
who nudge and prod and goad

I should not care about them
Instead of them I should care
about the void

and how it cares for me
by uncaring existence
Serenely blissful at ignorance

I try to not care much
and I mostly fail
but now and then

I catch a kiss not aimed at me
and I am atomically blessed
by the minute and random nature of it

and go back after a moment
to not caring at all
about it at all — I swear

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

Apologies for the lack of a new poem yesterday — I spent the day at the doctor’s office getting prepped and approved for cataract surgery on my eyes. Tentative date is April 6, but will likely move up. Will keep you posted.

new poem:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I Shrug It Off

Heraldic noises
in my head — where else
would they be? It is not fitting
to assume the world would herald
for me. I am just one of eight billion
who presume prominence and dawn
isn’t much for me to take as my own
instead of lying down quietly
when I pass.

Where else would they be —
internal, reflective
of the imminent storm
or the quiet of the morning?
I shrug it off.

The banners
of vanished kingdoms, the flags
of imaginary lands — they
aren’t for me; I am one
of eight billion, after all;
in the long turn of morning
into day, into night, what can I do
except love what I can until
I pass, quietly, into the next
and the next.

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

Sing then
of oatmeal, of
agave nectar and
cinnamon and milk
poured on; sing of
coffee warmed up
and re-warmed to make it
palatable and the satisfying
nature of completion
of the breakfast meal —
and now what? A shower
and a drive south, then north
again, pained eyes and dark
glasses;

sing of coming home
and sitting still, very still
for an hour, maybe two
or three, until night
and sleep and then the surprise:

waking up ready to scream
because you get to, are privileged
to, have to do it all again —
this is the path to happiness
or unhappiness, depending;

this is the way and in spite of
untold uncounted ways,
this must be your way.

It’s enough
to keep you clung together
for now like oatmeal
in a bowl waiting
for its partner.

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

Tentatively
a cat steps from
the top of one box
down to a lower box
covered with a sheet
and, satisfied, curls up
to sleep; I wish
I felt the same;
even a little, even a smidgen,
falling asleep even if I felt frightened
until drifting off.

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

On the keychain these days
is a double jointed opossum
with an open mouth
aaaaaaaahhhhhh

He screams in joy and desperation
and any number of other reasons
I think he’s a he — could be not —
aaaaaaaaaahhhhh

I think he was made up somewhere
in China or maybe Vietnam
I like him a lot — reminds me of me
with his open body screaming — aaaaahhhh

Sometimes I get bothered by all
that is happening to me and all
that isn’t — all the truth that I can’t face
or will not deal with though I can see it

It’s a math problem or a logic issue
where X is all the years I have lived
and Y is the years that are likely left
I curl up and close my eyes — aaah, aaah

Don’t try to shake it off
Don’t try to make it go away
Opossum has the holy answer to it
Hang out clean and scream AAAAAAAHHH

and then shut up abour ir
till it comes to eat you and you drop
The wind outside is inside you then
Inside you say ahhh and then you rest

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

What is it with birds
that they come to me
in my dreams and are
undisturbed by my presence?

When I wake there are songs
from the radio in my heart —
songs in my head too —
who knows from where?

They vanish once I recognize them.
The birds seem unperturbed.
All I want is silence to prepare my day.
Half a minute unpunished by sound —

too much to ask for. I have
the radio off and it’s too dark
for birds. A car goes by without me
in it. I long to go, too.

To go in silence would be more
than I should ask for. Closing my eyes
I try to pretend I am going — it doesn’t work,
though. I stay seated, infirm,

with scraps
of birds
and fragments
of song.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
–

call me a red-tailed hawk
call me a red all over worm
in a hawk’s beak

call me a white miracle
call me a white nobody
groveling on paler clay

or call me black feather
and call me colorless remainder
of what came once and not again

there is a rough brown tree somewhere
that feels like mine
feels like a refuge

a brown cross beamed tree
a grey storm bent tree
hollow but firm to wind tree

call me from my tree
to my place in a folksong world
let me perch above

for I am not that firm
I cannot stand alone
until I lean upon you

until I lean upon you
like a tree
like a hawk stopping to rest

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward
T

“Angel of mercy and light,” says
the song, and the world smiles.
(The Christian world does anyway.)

Meanwhile in Lebanon they differ
and explosions cover the countryside,
slaughter the children, their parents,

grandparents. “Silent night,
holy night,” the smiling United State
sings and with wet eyes beams and fawns.

Angel, silent. Holy, mercy. Light
in the night. Flames from bombs,
candles. Don’t you love this?

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

To have a moment
of peace from this —
a second even of not
hesitating between
the act and the instant
rethinking of the act —
to just naturally flow
between them, indeed
to have to not think before
the next act; for instance
to not worry about each
punctuation mark, to not stop
in mid-step to think about
where I’m going this time
and then changing direction
or not changing it; this
is a toxic walk with a poison
cup waiting to be sipped
at the end or even halfway;
who am I now ten months’
into this life of having to remember
how quiet and routine it used to be
to get up out of bed, walk
to the bathroom, walk out
without saying, “next, the pantry,
next, the coffee, next, the cat…” as if
there was no need for an order
that just came to me without thought,
without writing it down, without
screaming or weeping or just sighing
once in a while, wondering how long
this will go on and on…

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

Packing my bags to get out of town,
says the song on the radio. Me? I’m staying
very put. Very much
committed to staying here in place
until perhaps tomorrow.

Too much desperation keeps me here, or is it
a love of momentary stability? Not sure.

All I know is what my heart tells me to do
and it says, stay put for now. Pack your bags
just in case, if you want; pretend you care
about the world outside; just don’t you dare
leave. It’s cold out there, after all.

You don’t have enough
to put in a bag anyway, let alone
more than one. All you’ve got
is a bag of nothing, pared down
from too much.

But pretty soon I’ll have
too much again, Then the message
will come to pare down before
going…where?

At last I feel relief. I’m ending up
a rich, rich man. Packing my bags
to get out of town; it changes the song
to a poem about taking nothing
for the journey now, and the sky
shines and shines — diamonds,
I guess; diamonds in a dirty glass.

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