Dark Matter

A sad morning song
the trumpet hasn’t begun
to play. I know them both
all too well.

My thumbs
twitch with knowledge
but I don’t know yet what
I should play — should I even use my thumbs?

Stare at them useless
as oiled meat hanging
on the rack at the Polish deli
I go to once on a blue moon morning,

generally after
playing my heart onto the floor.
I sing them in the car,
not weeping a little.

Driving home
having bought nothing
I waste a little time, then
a little more.

A Grateful Dead song
comes on the radio as I turn off
the stereo and step free of the car:
“till the morning comes…”

Now I wanna dance sprightly
up the stairs
and forget the song
I first heard at the market.

I wanted to hear
a trumpet.
I wanted to cry
for the sound.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Onward,
T

On Tuesday morning
the sun flashed purple for
a second or less but
I saw it transform the world
around it, and it was good.

A simple moment, almost
easy in its derivation
from the complexity I’d grown
to believe was inherent
in the nature of things,
but it was good. Almost

a lie, almost a fib even
told straightforwardly enough
you could honestly swear by it
though you had not seen it yourself;
you would find a way to agree
with it. It was good.

After all, the sun does not change
every day and on the days it does
I know I have to believe in it;
even for a fraction of a second,
the sun turned the world purple
and you and I were bound to it
even though you did not see it
directly.

Marvelous sun —
for a piece of holy time this was
a violet world, no matter
how you saw it, no matter
your experience of it and it
was good. 

““““““““““““““““““““`
onward,
T

Puissant means
powerful.

Someone’s made an offer
of a word to choose
in place of a more common
word. Someone’s
got it in for the speaker
in a high-test way
and now he or she’s
gonna get it.

Now
I have to choose.

It’s such a minute thing, choosing
these choice words. Puissant.
Powerful. I am neither.
Living among the islands
I don’t get to talk much.
I get to think, and honestly
there’s not much talking involved
in that.

So I don’t say much.
Smile, nod, move on. Keep
thinking, though. Tap my cane
to the cadence. Wait
my turn.

It may not come again but
it may, and I will be ready —
puissant, powerful.
Ready.

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

I try to add a thought here
whenever I have one,
which is seldom;

most of the time I confess
I prefer to think of ordinary life
and its discontents;

most of the time
I can’t spell right and I end up
replacing words and such —

sometimes for
clarity, other times to
startle readers into

whatever I feel at the moment
regarding truth and lies and
their musical notes

as if I were at the helm
of a grand symphony,
or an intimate and profound

chamber ensemble; it is not
fitting to startle readers into
music in place of truth,

say the elders of the music world
or the elders of the poetry and
truth worlds, any worlds beyond

this one, really. At any rate
I know so little and when I die
or at least go, go beyond this

mundane world of trash at the curb
and sitting still, trying to decide
how it’s going to work, I will have

ghosts of music and poetry
to hold me in their supple arms
and no matter how disrupted

they appear, no matter how
damaged or re-formed they
have changed themselves to be,

I will have my moment — and that
will be all, will be enough to go on.
You will turn to your affairs soon enough.

It will not hurt, I promise.
It will only prompt you to say,
as I did, “how it all — the music,

the poetry — how
it all shines.” Then,
as I did, you will turn away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward.
T

It doesn’t matter what you choose
or how you frame it. In the end
they will still look at you funny
and after a sigh or two dismiss you.
Shake their heads, one or two of them,
and let you go.

It doesn’t matter how you dress
or how you say the things you say.
You will still be the cause
for their shaking heads, their
worried hands trembling
when they reach out for you,
and then (reluctantly at first
but with relief at the close)
let you go.

Be well, and let me go
without a qualm or care
in the world. You should recognize me:

I’m a chipmunk
you never chased deeply enough into the earth
to understand. You should recognize me:
I’m a bird of indeterminate plumage
you thought you knew in your bones
but were never certain that you did,
not after I’d flown.

You should recognize me:
I’m you before the fire, after the flood,
sunset on your beloved lake before night falls
all the way down like a perfect blanket.

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

Call her by name.

She doesn’t answer
for more than a minute.

You pretend to care a little
because it matters a little.
Outside, the world shatters
more than a little — you
are a little shaken; more
than shaken — meanwhile
she carries you on the wave
left behind by the occurrence
of your name on anyone’s
mouth.

When she finally
uses your name again,
you have forgotten it and
shake your head like a bag
left over from a long shopping
trip. Who you are
doesn’t matter. You are
hips and toes and only
a little of you is in your head
waiting to respond to her.

Call her by name again

and you won’t forget it
though you don’t know her
at all. She is a wave in your head
and that’s what counts. She
is perfect for the cause
and that is final. Until
you forget again, she
is all you can imagine.

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