Just taking time off for a week or so…be well.
The Good Of My Health
The coffee? It’s good. The aftermath
of it, the flavor that stays with you? It’s
good. All of it is good, stays with you,
is satisfying — that’s enough. You can sit
for hours with it and it will be enough
to hold you. What is fair about this? Nothing
and everything — you could sit for hours
with it, immobile as you are, and rotted things
and intact items will rise up unchanging
before you; there will be roses of incredible
perishable loveliness and then the letter will come
with its tale of tax debt and ruin
and still you will sit with stolid loveliness intact
and you will say, shrug voiced, not solemn:
amen. This is good coffee. I think another cup
is in order for the good of my health and the world.
Sunday exclusive post, 6/16/2024
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New post: Git yer emails here…
Hi all —
I haven’t worked out the details yet and will likely make up the rules as I go along, but I’d like to invite you all to join my email list.
Admission is free. Just sign up from the list — contact me if there is a problem and we will puzzle it out. (There are likely to be problems up front as I am still learning on this ancient Mac, but we will get it right.)
You will get access to the Sunday exclusive poem and one download of a “thing” per month — a video, a poem…something. I don’t know what.
Bear with me, folks. After 2-3 strokes I’m still trying to get a handle on what’s doable. The Work comes first, but after that…?
Hit me up with any questions.
onward.
T
Miesha and the Cup of Coffee
That is good coffee,
I tell my cat.
She
barely cares, or so
I think. Half-asleep
and stiff staring at the screen
as if to wonder why it matters
this much how good
the coffee is.
It keeps my face moving,
I tell her. It keeps me
talking, even to you
with closed eyes still
looking my way and waiting
for me to get up and go
into the kitchen to start
a day with incremental
changes: maybe I go
somewhere; perhaps I finish
cleaning up the invasive vines
I cut free yesterday; there is
a chance later today I’ll
make dinner. Whatever.
She puts her head down
and turns to one side —
she knows I am telling
a partial truth, a lie or
something less than a lie —
her eyes tight against it.
Well, it’s good coffee still,
I say. I’ll go make myself
another cup. She doesn’t care.
It’s all the same to her. It’s all
the same to me or it will be
until I make another cup
before it shuts off and grows cold.
She doesn’t care.
It is all the same to her.
And Yet
It is not much —
a shoelace’s distance
in fascination; no distance at all,
really.
It is not enough to stave off
the deep funk of second sight, of wondering
how much it will take to enter the room,
close the door, fall into the black mist of
whatever comes next…frankly
to die…
but the cat sleeps by the window
and doesn’t stir at all as I pet her.
No Name Island
There is a memory I don’t want to accept
floating in the ether of my brain
like an island unattached to a land mass
and I know someday it will find its fastening
but for now I don’t know when
It is going to be rough but I am certain
that one day it will slip and make a mark
as if it were an island unmasked and drifting loose from its land
like a monster into diabolical predicaments
until it settles and becomes an obscure childhood tale
leaving a swollen blood trace behind where it struck
One day with only a pang of ghost pain
I will say ah yes I recall that
it’s a memory of small import
an island remote and just across the bay
I don’t want go there
it’s scrub and refuse
it doesn’t even have a name
Growth
If it’s not too much to ask
take the burden away
and leave me with a lesser load,
one that doesn’t break my back
or bend me for all time,
or even for a day.
If it’s not too much to ask
let me stand straight, straight
as a tree I would have cut down,
straight as a post I would have scoffed at
as an imposter and tried
to push aside.
Even as it resisted me
I would have sneered at it.
Even as it stood immobile
I would have stood aside
saying, “I’ll come back
for you later.”
If it’s not too much to ask,
let there be a later. Let there be
a time to come back and this time
let me hug the resistant tree,
let me grow close to the wood.
If I can bind myself to it I shall
with these words: nothing shall hold us.
Nothing but tears on my part
and slow growth on the tree’s part.
We two will stand, we two will grow
until the day comes
to cut us down.
Halfway (Sunday exclusive 6/9/2024)
I’m sorry. I haven’t been
myself. Instead
I’ve been a rotted old chair. Half
soft, half brittle, and ready to collapse
this side of the finish line.
I’m sorry. I’m almost
finally done. Instead
I’ve been a sodden old table. Half
chewed up, half dilapidated, and ready
to creak to beyond the end.
I’m finally sorry, almost
completely finished. Instead
I am a thought — an incomplete
thought. It never ended,
never finished, never completed.
This whole world is cheering.
I am over halfway to an end
and I’m sorry. I will not.
I can’t complete the circuit
and despite the cheering,
I am ending like this.
““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““
onward,
T
seldom seen…
Four hits yesterday, three hits today.
I have no confidence in my non-poetic work.
thanks,
T
Old Americana
I am listening to old Americana
and I’m getting so sleepy
I am letting the mice have their way
with the words and the images
of them getting so smart
they think the words mean nothing
They wander among the words
as if they can stand easy among them
As if they are unfamiliar with likelihood
As if they are used to getting caught
It is a shrug to them
The banjo circles among them
The slide guitar moseys up to them
and if there is a bass guitar commanding them
it will slap them down flat soon enough
I am listening to old Americana
from back when to hear it was to admit
you didn’t listen to newer music
No drum and bass or hard R & B
As if I were a relic myself
As if I took a plunge into flash and circumstance
and learned in a devil’s hurry about it
The mice knew already and I cleaned them out
The dust was settled around them and their little skulls
lay perfect and dry in their unfettered pelts
As perfect and dry as my own
I am listening to old Americana
No vibrating sounds or unfettered syllables
I’m just dozing off when a mouse scoots by
on the floor between the TV and the dozing cat
who startles up and becomes too late alert
This one has gotten away with something short of murder
Last of the breed perhaps
Last of his kind
I shrug off his escape and pet myself
Too much little pest little annoyance little dweller
in the dark between my slap and the cat’s paw
Like myself waiting to fall by the side of the trail
or get going and get gone with the music
Like myself waiting for
Whatever Comes Next
Not Equipped
I am not equipped
for a new poem —
not today; instead
I have prepared myself
for a lack of them entirely —
a lack of new poems! Entirely
to be without thought
and ultimately reaction.
Let the wind
and rain and lovely, lovely clouds
wash them cleanly from our
crowded, crooked minds —
yours too.
Yours too;
may you be free of a new poem
till the next day after this, or
the next day or the day after that.
You don’t need one when instead
you are one with the news of a poem.
When you are the news of a poem.
When the poem vanishes, a leaf
on a breeze.
Last Gasp
Brilliantly edited.
The last gasp of a season of wonder.
Gulp of air — a little leak, then nothing more.
I look him fearlessly in one eye — right, then left.
He is more like a bird though he preached about them incessantly.
Stopped caring about them after he stopped breathing.
Not a moment too soon.
I look into his stony eyes again.
He has stopped breathing, stopped everything in fact.
The day begins to brighten.
It won’t rain.
For a moment, anyway, until he clears the earth.
Home
I’m home.
None of my furniture consoles me.
I am alone in a house stuffed with it.
None of it allows me to weep.
I’m home.
I keep my lids shuttered against
the inadvertent blow against them
that may come from a longing glance
from my straying left eye. I’m home
and if I am not careful, I will
burst. I will fall apart knowing
all of this is meant to be
average, normal; it is not.
I’m home now in a typical place
wearing typical clothes — black
T-shirt, plaid pants. You,
gentleman caller, can knock
but I will not respond. You
will walk away puzzled. Meanwhile
I’ll be naked and crying;
you will not hear me. I’m home
and I’m nude and crying and
to bring it to full and satisfying boil
no one is as puzzled as I am
about this. Everyone’s been called.
Everyone’s been notified. You would think
I would have this all simple and controlled.
If anyone comes in, though, I’ll be
crying. Without clothes. Lying
in the middle of the floor. Exhausted
from trying — what? Tired of all of this —
what? I’m home. What difference will it make?
Long Rule
what was the rule
that kept him going
long after wind had relented
long after it stopped
what was the time
he ignored and decided not to reply
between hours or minutes —
seconds it took to act then be gone
what was the honor
he crippled by refusing
what did he think he was
a worthwhile mind in service to a slave
instead he chose to honor
a lifetime’s regression to his moment
in the sun or a shady moment
in someone else’s sun
behind it lay peace
behind lay forgetting
his own lapse toward forgetful
a shrugging off then a release
Dark Matter 