Dark Matter

Architectures of misery:
for one, the brickpiles of public housing;

for another, the triple decker units of aging neighborhoods
with sagging porches and facades of cheap vinyl over clapboard;

for another, the detached homes
and closecut lawns of the suburbs;

for another, the family farmhouse
and its windburned outbuildings huddled tight in the wide plains;

for another the perfect home on the perfect ridge
perfectly sited above the perfect ocean;

for another, the trailers and prefab shacks
on the reservation, clustered in the shadow of all the others.

If you can name a misery you can give it a home
and a palace and a yard and estate to hold it;

if you can name an ecstasy you can do the same,
and the ecstasy of one may be the misery of another, of course.

Admit it: the home in which you are happiest
is a negation of one where another lives best.

Into the heat of the night to chase Lazarus,
for I know what I want to learn from him:

how he got over his anger at his friend
for pulling him back into the struggle. 

I want to ask him how long he held the grudge
and if he led with it whenever he and Jesus talked,

if indeed they ever spoke again after that day,
which seems likely though it’s unrecorded.

How do you have that conversation
about him not just saving your life,

but pulling it all the way back from bankruptcy
and liquidation to deposit it right back where it had been

as if nothing had happened at all and anything 
that soul had seen while it was gone could be forgotten?

I know it can’t.  Know it for a fact.
And I need to know how to speak to a friend

who brought me back just like that, even though 
in my case I really wanted to go.  I want to know

how I’m supposed to be his friend again.
I want to know if it’s even right to try — and if anyone

should know it’s Lazarus. How did he and Jesus
get past it, if they did at all?  They never

put that in the Gospels.  They never made
a sermon out of that.

You look like a man 
in need of a punch
in the side of the head
or a piercing
in the side of the body
Something dealt to you
by a Roman or a punk
Something you can add to
your Martyrdom Book
Something as good as any 
suicide attempt
colossal drunk striptease
bad haircut
Something to tell
the LADIES about
over a bottle of tears
You look like a man
in need of a narrative
to put it all into
A man in need
of a rabbit to tear apart for effect
as if the rabbit were an envelope
and the winner’s name was inside
A man in search
of a terrible weakling to be
A man who knows his disease well enough
to call it up for a ride
when he needs
to get somewhere FAST
A man who’s not going to get
his much needed punch in the head
from this guy
because this guy has no desire
to drive you anywhere

If they decide to kill your spirit,
they will begin with flattery.

They will begin
with flattery
and continue into sycophancy.

They will follow you around
on hands and knees as sycophants 
and slowly, slowly begin to suck you dry.

They will say your shit is nectar —
and what, therefore,
must the rest of you be?

You will believe them,
you’ll see yourself as a genius teat
after a while…

and full of shit
or not full of shit at all,
what will be the difference then?

observe this clump
of recalcitrant cells
sitting up in bed refusing
to do what biology insists upon
and die —

what arrogance
that it won’t just roll over into rot
considering all the insult 
it has self-inflicted 
in its lifespan —  

why it’s even
trying to get more sleep
learning to de-stress and rest
seeking better nutirition
it has even stopped smoking —

this looks remarkably 
like a disease called by some
hope —

what we know
of the habits
of such colonies 
is that when hope manifests
it is always
aberrant and short-lived —

still
it produces a glow in the cells —

a phenomenon
that may have some
adaptive advantage
as on rare occasions
it is strong enough to illuminate 
a small enclosed space

we would have learned much earlier
that riding each other
is THE way to get closer to Home

we would have made you wings
that would have lifted
when spread against time

wouldn’t have given you 
so little pocket room
to hold relics for the journey

would not have had you waste time
learning to pray
and would have had you learn more

about singing instead

if we had known
we’d never have left you here
to deal with the night’s sadness

and love’s meteorite scars
we’d have raised you right
we’d have raised you to escape

You don’t want immortality
without permanent youth.

You don’t want permanent youth
without perpetual novelty.

If you stop being surprised
by the world,

being young will get
old.  You will begin praying

for death, and nothing
will be able to console you.

So — be thoughtful
before you ask me

for the wishes.
I can do so much

and little more.  I cannot
make you happy, really.

Blood
on me pants

Me warm in the sun

Me waiting for the sirens

Me saying it’s a good day to die
A good day

May be me die today
Maybe not

but in the sun it’s warm
and me head feels pretty darn
good — a little balloony of course
with me blood all over

Me never saw the car
or may be it was a truck

A good day to die by truck or car

Who knew this — no matter where you die
you end up in San Diego

May be it’s Boston I die in
but this is sure San Diego I see

Me with the blood all over
and warm in the sun

I missed this
all these years
Glad to be back

Half unmanned while young
by a misadventure,

I have shoved my way through —
surly, highly aware, knowing 

that one deft blow
to my remaining grape

might change everything again;
the first blow left me childless,

a second might leave me
with nothing at all.  

Since then I’ve covered up, walked tight,
faked more man than I felt;

packed heat, packed a knife, 
packed it in and away and off to safety.

Come for me knowing you will not get
one whole man.  You’ll end up with half

and a machine, one built to run
on loss and fury;

one built to fight back, posture
and roar like a warrior, a man

with everything in place. (And even as 
I say that, I know how much more

is missing from me
than is missing from my body.)