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Diary Of A Plague Year
When it came to us
from somewhere else,
we could not acknowledge
that it had been born
among us. It traveled
to us as prodigal,
not as alien.
Dirt from its boots
got into our food,
lay on our sheets
and scored us as we slept
and made love,
clouded the very water
in our drinks.
We stopped using
our bowels, absorbed
our own waste
in an effort to stop
the spread,
but it spread anyway,
we could smell it
everywhere we went:
concrete
and flesh on fire. Roses
in Afghan graveyards
and homely Iraqi streets.
Honey in clay jars masking the stink
of money.
The fresh odor of the flag
on the stiff wind, snapping
in our nostrils.
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there is no chance like the present
there is no chance like the present
imagine the hard-luck man, brown from drink and tobacco,
reaching for the pencil to check off the keno numbers,
then dropping his dollars on the moment
when the TV screen will show his fate.
lose or win, it’s a great moment while he’s waiting.
or picture the son of the same man, cracking the books
and studying for the physics exam,
mind slipping toward the tabs in the bottom of his sock drawer,
calculating what he can take,
how long he’ll be flying, equations, formulas,
and what time can he spare from the one
before he must give time to the other?
deciding, he falls in love with the notion
that luck is with him now and always.
for the next door neighbor, it’s all good. the cats
won’t eat her for at least a day yet. she lies on the floor
and luck holds the swinging door closed
against their yowling needs. in the moment before they push hard enough
she is most beautiful, face at peace, hands at rest,
quite still inside at at last.
there is no chance like the present. better still,
there is no chance except the present. the moment of waiting.
of all best worlds existing at once. of luck being not a possibility,
but a birthright. of life and death and remission
and subterfuge in the name of happiness. of the dice
coming up divine everytime.
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Anhedonia
Bruce doesn’t get up anymore
when his favorite song of all time
comes on.
Bruce has stopped thinking
in terms of favorites. He feels
all of them are arbitrary, his
and those of others.
Tomorrow
he might have a different favorite
candy, position, drink, person,
song. That’s why he doesn’t get up.
Save a little for the next favorite thing.
Might be here any time.
While waiting, he starts to think
he’s a freak for not having a favorite song
anymore, some kind of foreigner
from where they don’t have favorites.
I tell Bruce,
not to worry, you’re just becoming
a shoulder angel. You know what I mean —
the whisperer for the right thing.
Not a shoulder devil, I’m sure. The shoulder
angel never plays favorites. The shoulder devil
tempts you with the longing for the thing
you love best. But the shoulder angel
rejects that sort of passion.
You sure, says Bruce? Because
it feels like hell, I think. Feels
unfeeling and I’m scared of it.
Don’t worry, I say,
you’re almost there.
You[re nearing a breakthrough.
Once you give up pleasure entirely
you’ll be right there near where God is.
God doesn’t like anything too much.
How could he? That would be playing
favorites with all of Creation. God
doesn’t do that.
You’re sure, he asks.
I’m sure, I say. You’re almost there.
OK, says Bruce.
Which knife should I use, do you think?
I’m having trouble choosing.
It doesn’t matter, really,
I tell him
while folding my wings.
Pick one —
they’re all sharp.
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Across The Line
That line —
the one you’ve always told yourself
you’d never cross —
is right there
in front of your toes.
On the side you’re on
there’s nothing but shit
and sand. On the other,
food and water: no banquet
but there’s enough there to hold you together
once you’re back on your side,
and to give you the strength
to stay away from the line
in the future.
When you tell yourself
it’s ok to step over
as long as you don’t erase it,
you realize
you’ve already begun to erase it.
Perhaps the problem you’re having
is the line? Perhaps
it’s not so much that
there’s a line as it is
that there should be lines at all?
Maybe the truth is
that the problem is
not the line,
but your desire to wipe out
your footprints
so that you can tell yourself
it never happened, so you can tell yourself
no one will ever know you were here?
That’s really a question for the vultures
who are already circling
to answer. Ask them,
why don’t you? I think they’ll tell you
they’ll take you
wherever they find you.
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From Above
what the hawk sees..
details
of hunger
simple need
a rupture
in human attention
balance
regret
the leading edge
of her own wing
the rumpled hair
of the worried lawyer
sustenance
regret, again
need, again
a snake unnoticed
near the cars
the bright fear of
what is above, below
below
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Migraine Says
the prettiest lights
wear my ring
all you have to do
is stay in the dark
and I’ll let you play with them
for as long as I want
so what if it makes you puke?
you know I only let my favorites
have them
what did you need your day for anyway?
what were you planning on doing
that could be more important
than just lying here in the dark
with your explosions
you need a slap upside the head
with a crowbar
to learn to shut down
shut up
and see what’s what, pal
you stubborn bastard
you need to slow down
and let it all get to you
once in a while
and doesn’t it feel good
to have an excuse to do so?
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Salvage
On the outskirts
of town
in an open space
where someone’s gathered the bones
of houses, pipes and such —
Johnson’s Scrapyard, or Pulaski’s Salvage,
some place like that
with some name like that —
all the refrigerators
with their doors off like burial vaults
skewed crazy on end, and the doors
in a separate pile, you know the kind of place
where it looks like a bomb went off
but that’s not what happened,
just the normal tear it up and cart it somewhere
where we don’t have to see it every day kind of place,
full of old corrugated iron
and the odd bike sticking up
out of the rusty creek that’s always on the border,
maybe a fence with barbed wire, some frontier
you recognize somehow, kind of place
you loved as a kid but now you tell your own kids
to stay away, that kind of obsolete —
yes,
that kind of place where a car you couldn’t
put back on the road legally gets reused
to move stuff, a Buick with its back
torn open like a pickup truck, seats used
by the little shack where the attendant sits
and waits for something, that kind of man
with greasy Dickies and a name tag, sitting smoking
Mustang cigarettes, yes, he goes home at night
to kids too, maybe kids your own kids
know but don’t talk to much,
that kind of place,
you know the kind of place I mean?
Well,
because your lawn and garden
and garage with its stainless concrete floor
and all that oil you studiously avoid,
all the things you replace,
all that stuff has to go somewhere
and that’s home too,
no matter how far out of town you put it,
no matter how hard you try to forget it’s there,
that kind of place you were told to avoid,
it’s dangerous out there, someone
could get hurt.
Yeah,
that’s home too. Don’t pretend
you don’t know, or that it’s not true.
Ask your kids sometimes
where they ride their bikes
when they’re gone a long time.
They’ll probably lie,
like you did once.
But you’ll know.
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Dark Flirt
I am nothing
if not faithful
to the dark.
Self-destruction
is a sexual being.
It flirts like a pro.
I’m in love with you,
it croons, and I give in
the natural way, allowing
myself to be seduced
until I’m wound up in a string
of sunrises seen at bedtime.
Those nights awake
have given me much,
cost me much. I breathe
wrong, sleep wrong,
snarl at kindness,
marry the sorrow
I am bound to hold
and cherish. I’ve learned much.
Wouldn’t have it another way,
if I’m to be honest. Someone
has to do this — otherwise,
who would give meaning to the day?
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Will
I have more than I need
of wine and music
heat and light
I’ll share
enough of what I have
to make a space
for you to enter
because this fat man
doesn’t want you to die alone
and empty
I can’t imagine wanting
as much as you do
as I have not wanted
for much
in this life
having taken and taken
it’s time to give
a little or a lot
everything
to those thinner in living
than I am
I could surrender and go
but what would happen
to all I would leave?
Rather
be forgotten
except as a source
for the living
to use as they go on living
in the times to come
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Django
His angular hand
coaxed these tones
unheard of till then:
sweet nasal chirps
and lucid pourings
swift as sugar water.
I sit with my own
instrument
and ponder
how I can do anything
worthy of being heard
in the wake of hearing this.
I’d have not braved
the world after the fire
if it had been me.
It isn’t my place
to imagine
that loss as a necessary urge
to this music.
It isn’t anyone’s place
to ascribe
art’s impulse to pain.
It comes as it comes,
out of the source
wherever there’s room.
A hand crabbed and fused,
melted and charred,
offered an open door
for it to bubble up.
I unclench my own, stare
at the perfect fingers
dry as dust, wondering
at the torrent burbling
around me. I pronounce
his name carefully,
inviting rain and spring snow.
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I Wanna Be Your Dog
She orders
seven hundred dollars worth of merchandise
for Christmas for her pets.
Yells at me when I can’t hear her
spell “Misty” and “Sparky”
for the matching personalized doggy PJs
because my headset is wonky
and drowning in static,
and the boss won’t give me another one.
I press my hands to the headphones
and take it, apologizing, advising her
about sizes on merchandise I’ve never seen
as if I care about this, because for some reason
I do, I want her to be happy, want her
to buy more for the commission I’ll make if she does
so I make it up and keep a gentle tone
even though I’m so ready to be done with her
and her cherished pets, Misty and Sparky
with their obvious names, a couple of Black Labs,
probably sleek and shiny and well fed
without being overfat, who will soon be getting an extra run in everyday
on their new bridle leather harnesses
then sleeping in their new cedar framed twill cushioned beds.
If you want to understand why I listen
to punk, barking and snarling loudly all the way to work
and all the way home,
this should help.
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Wardrobe
I’m no
walk-in closet.
More of a wardrobe.
Limited space
for stuff inside —
keep to a regimen
of work, sleep,
occasional fun
and don’t hold on
to many souvenirs
unless they fit into
the small drawers
I occasionally weed
to make slots for new
items. If I want larger
themes, I go outside
and feel no need to own
what I see. I’m not overfull
with passing fancy this way,
a thing I learned
through experience —
my walls
can’t take
too much weight
and a packed drawer
doesn’t open easily
when you’re in need
of what’s inside.
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Short Poem For A Bitter Poet
Spit me a river
of your victimhood’s tears
and I’ll show you something
nothing can live in.
You’re no artist. You’re just
salting the bed. I can see
all the stunning creatures
you’ve neglected
gasping for air down there.
dying
on behalf of your bile.
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It’s A Shame
It’s a shame when anyone dies. — from an Internet forum post
You say it’s a shame when anyone dies
though it’s one of the few things
you can count on everyone doing
so I guess you’re saying
we’re all supposed to be ashamed
of people being human
and exiting this state of grace
called living
Some get to it faster than others
through no effort of their own
I suppose that’s a shame
in some way
though I suspect we’re upset
at them leaving us behind
to await our own ends
I never saw it this way
Think it’s a shame to cause another’s death
Think that some shame adheres to the killer
Even if it’s justified in self-defense
It’s still a shame that it had to happen
that someone will have to walk around knowing
they were responsible for it
even if there was no alternative
But when an old person dies of the body’s decay
that’s just what is supposed to happen
A young person dies from an illness or accident
and that’s supposed to happen
An infant dies in sleep without warning
and that’s supposed to happen
so I don’t know what the shame is
in dying at the appointed time
We don’t get to pick those appointed times
We don’t get to choose who lives or dies
just to keep ourselves whole and happy
It’s not an option not to die
no matter how good or worthy you are
of the honor of living
no matter how much good you did
or what you created for the astonishment of the living
you will go as we all will go
And when it comes to the suicides
who long to bring the inevitable forward
speed things up with the sudden jolt of the rope
or the trigger
or do it more gradually with a smoke or a drink
a needle or a truckload of burgers
you can’t say much to dissuade them at the end
They’re hurtling and hurting
telling themselves minute by minute
“let’s just get this over with”
and there may be pain left behind them
but no shame in losing that urge to self-preserve
so anger at their choices isn’t worthy
of those who choose to hold themselves here
as long as possible
What is a shame
but a regret intensified
to the point of obsession
If there’s one regret worth obsessing over
it’s not that death itself occurs
It’s that death can’t be traded
among the living according to their desire for it
I know people who are closing in on that end
who fight to hang in for the last nailhold of life
and others who would go now if something didn’t hold them back
by their own nails
and it’s not a love of life that keeps them here
but a fear that they’ll be shamed in the early departure
that they’ll crush the left behind with sadness
If I had my way
we could take the shame from their brows
give their extraneous life to the ones
who long for more
It’s a shame we can’t do that
call out
“living, here’s one worthy of you
keep this one
and let this other one go
without any sense of regret”
the balance would be thus maintained
The only shame I see in this
is that you could call me
tomorrow
and I’ll likely still be here
when the phone will ring a long time
at the home of someone
who desperately wanted to answer
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Dark Matter 