Dark Matter

It is time to say
what must be said.
Time to go. Time to go
long, get gone, get moving.
Time to spit all the cliches
you know because you are
restless and if you are going
you need to speak it into truth.

It is time to speak
the words you never wanted to
say or even have them come up,
unbidden, in your almost-dreams.
Time to let go. Time to leave,
get closure, close it down,
shut off the lights. Time to
give a last good-bye, shut the door.

It is as if you didn’t understand
the lesson you were taught:
there are no more lessons except
the Great One; there are no more lessons
except the one that says “shhh…be quiet.
There’s nothing left to teach, nothing
left to learn, and no teacher at all.”
You were responsible and if you weren’t enough

you should have taken more, should have
learned more from this. You never learned
a damn thing except how to be quiet
when the ghosts of the past roared at you;
how they rumbled and growled. It was
enough, and the truth is when you finally
learned how to be still, you sat there nodding
until you were stilled. It was enough to sit still

with the lights off
until you faded
into the Dark.

Suppose you take a moment
out of your busy day and reflect,
like a mirror, on your failings
since you fell victim to the CVA

and were unable to tell the time
by ear or simple sense of gap between
this moment and the last:
suppose time were lost to you

and suppose you have fallen prey to
a sort of despair that clings to you
with your head down, a weight
on your neck, more than a blanket roll

but less than a rock, a boulder even;
time moving so, so slowly as you try
to think fast, to respond as you used to;
suppose you found yourself like this

one day, thought it would pass
but then ths next day comes and it does not;
didn’t you ramble about your worry
that this might happen? You can’t take this

perpetually unchanging sense of time
not being yours to govern. You can’t take
time not being yours to command. A stroke
changes all of it. A stroke humbles you

implacably. I woke up insatiable
focused on the correct time like a drink
that would soothe me and instead a clock
proves my undone worth. I’m going to sit here

until I have failed utterly. Suppose
I will find a balance between what I think
the time should be and what it is? Fat chance.
A rock and another rock, grinding me down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

onward,
T

I woke up sad. Felt
useless, worn out —
then I tuned my guitar-lele
to an analogue of DADGAD,
worn-out strings and all
until it sounded somewhere
in the neighborhood of right

and then I hung it on the wall —
two taps of the hammer, no more
than that — hung it right where
I could grab it if there ever came
a hurry to heal things, a need for speed
in fixing the earth to prevent
catastrophe, even if all that would be better
would be me

and my choice to not end
there would be negated or at least
put off. It’s there now
before breakfast and a shower,
after the dishes are done.

Before the needful, after
the needful. Right then
it was the needful; I am glad
to have it done so the music
awaits me from the white wall,
the dark wood, the still-polished strings.

I don’t know what comes next. If anyone
knows whisper it in my ear;
let me stretch my crippled fingers
to the tune.

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

having a cup of strong coffee as I type.
this is all I live for.

not even live for,
exactly. I exist for this. I make up
for all my faults, small or large, grievous
or trivial, even the imaginary ones,
this way.

if you approve
of this way of life — this shunning
of brave face, this jaw lightly open
until I shut it tight — with there
being a purpose behind it, however small
and trivial —

you can clap, you can
shower me with kisses or one good
slap on the back and heartful
congratulations — you can go for it
and I won’t mind because

today I’m like any bug
landing here for a moment:
anonymous for a brief second
but memorable.

like the taste
of a good cup of coffee,

lasting until I wash off
or am rinsed away.

Five forty six AM; I am sitting
on the edge of my seat. My heart
is a little bit faster than normal.
I am not sweating much; that’s all;
this is how an origin begins.

How the story
has grown from nothing to small facts;
how the story will grow farther and faster
in the interval and I will wake up after sleeping
to find it grown.

Five forty nine AM
and the break between starting and here
has become consequential; I am lying down
and trying not to breathe too quickly.
An origin story takes time to grow.

How the story
does grow, does slow, adds substance;
how there are names that come and go
and slowly change, and how I fold
my contributions in until they are seamless.

Six seventeen AM.
I am wrapping up. The story
will continue, of course; of course
it will. I will turn away from it. Pay it
little mind. It is in its own glory, after all.

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

I don’t know
how to say
I found you;
just — I did.
I found you
and you were
wearing the same
clothes, the same
outfit, the exact
costume she was.
I did not
know how long
I played; just
know I did
and it lasted
a little while
or perhaps longer.
Eventually, it seemed
longer. I did
the needed stretch
and you were
released and ran.
You ran, eventually,
and I fell
to the earth
and cried joyfully;
I was free.
At last. Dreams
had come…true?
Figment of imagination?
You know, friend,
I’ve lost track.
Did you exist?

Let’s suppose it was like
they say…let’s choose
to believe them when they say
it’s terrible in here.

Let’s assume
they were right — that
everything clumsy is real
and you will find no grace in here.

Let us choose to believe them
and to leave them unmocked
and untroubled as they walk away,
brushing off their hands, never looking back.

Your flights will go unseen by them.
Your rising up and up will go unseen by them.
You might have been clumsy — skinned knees
and hands as you picked yourself up and rose

for all time — you might have been awkward,
flailing as you nonetheless elevated yourself
from the earth to the air above it; no matter.
You flew and in less time than it has taken me

to tell this story, you were supported by the air.
You were lifted above and while they did not catch on,
they knew — they knew. They knew that the earth
seemed less bound. They felt it — they felt it.

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