It is written
that a man,
a gradually forgetful man,
may one day choose to remember
what he has forgotten and,
screwing his eyes shut solid
in his head, will forget it once again
and will call a woman by a name
she doesn’t recognize,
but she will respond as if it was
the right name and,
verbally, smile and then pat
the man’s hand after and go on
as if it did not matter, as it will
truly not matter in the moment
and only after will he see, in a flash,
in a whipsaw moment, how wrong
he was; then he will berate himself and
seek her name again and
find it in a book
and be crushed by it
as if it were a stone
rolling down some hill
he had forgotten;

it is written
that the man will calm down —
diminished, of course;
smaller, naturally;

it is written
that he will turn from his debacle
and, sitting down, will scope news
of distant war and
looming apocalypses
for others, thinking, worrying
that they are perhaps for him:
imagining the wary looks
of lawmen on the street,
the suspicious eyes of neighbors;

it is written
that he will turn
his own deep worry about his own eyes —
how they don’t see what they used to see
in the shade of the planet, in the
nighttime of night’s soil on the sheet —
then with a start, afraid unreasonably,
he will turn away from that
without understanding it;

it is written
that somewhere not here,
in a place not easily found,
not accessed through sight,
beyond his failing sense of order,
is the explanation of all of this
nonsense, of the thick stew
in his head that occasionally
pops up a factoid or
something resembling one;

it is written
he will close his eyes
upon this one more time,
and say to himself,
somehow:
just a few more years, just
a few more years to wait;
then he recalls the words.

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

Writing, first thing, a list of items to be done.
Chosen to remember, chosen to execute.
Illuminating this day’s chores.

I see a black snake sliding down
a path he made ten minutes before.
Perhaps I am wrong.

Perhaps that path is older, maybe
ten years or even ten thousand, and he only does
what he was asked to do by ancestors.

At any rate it has been seen. He has
been seen. Or she has been seen.
It makes no difference to me, after all.

It makes no difference, either,
that I see a hummingbird hovering.
Sucks at a four o’clock bloom. Flits off quickly.

On to the next, and then the next.
The snake raises its head as the bird slips by.
I do not think they know each other.

I worry about the bills,
the nameless faces in offices
I will call upon to help fix the mess I’m in.

I will worry about the war in which I’m suddenly involved.
Fret about peace, about the clueless President
and his lackeys, about how my neighbors have gotten mean.

But the black snake moves on, paying it no mind.
The ruby-throated hummingbird moves on,
paying it no mind.

I put my head down and close my weary,
already exhausted eyes. Try to pay it no mind.
Let it go by: already they are memories of seeing everything

in a brief moment, a second of time, a slice of
something — our words can’t explain it, not at all.
Shrug it off, then. Go back to writing down bones of the day.

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

Saturday morning
and it’s too early or late
for fireflies, too cold for anything
really, snow everywhere came in
overnight, and more, much more,
slated for tomorrow. What it is
is Saturday and I’m sitting still
with a computer on my lap, Miesha
in my customary chair bathing herself,
now and then looking up to assure
that I’m not rising up to shake her off
her seat. What it is: Saturday
and I’m afraid of another long, long day
before me — just a trip planned to get
prescriptions, get all my drugs
for a week ahead; it’s so boring here
without a care except
for all these worries and concerns
about how this will possibly end,
what I could possibly do,
what legend or map key I could
possibly use to find a way out
to some place with fireflies, some place
without a cat wary of removal
from comfort, some place
free of drugs and worries and concerns
about how long I’ve got, about this going on
until an end comes up suddenly
or gradually; what it is, is a yawning slog
through hours, days, weeks
until there is no Saturday ahead.

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

Here is a travelogue: if you look left
you will see Providence; look to your right
and you will see Worcester; somewhere
in between the two lies Uxbridge,
barely recalled now, barely there at all
in the fog around it.

A travelogue: the route was clear and the people there
less so. The way seemed clear at the time,
full of fire and occasional peace; now it seems
that it was unsure, and indefinite, and nowhere
close to the glorious march it seemed.

A travelogue: I didn’t know where it was headed and honestly
didn’t care, or rather was so sure of it going
its misleading way that I did not stop to question
any sign that it was false, or vague, or wrong.

A travelogue: now, now near the close of it,
I do not question it as I once did, do not think
to ask if I should have had another aim
to my life. It was what it was;
there was beauty amid ugly,
pleasure enveloped by pain;
there were those I loved
who did not love me back, and the reverse
was also true; all along the trees
kept faith, the dogs were faithful,
the ocean rose and fell as was described
from the first;

and I, I was
devoted to the play of things,
leaving only a small trace of myself
behind in my travels.

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

It doesn’t matter what I think
or do. No matter what I think
or do I am incorrect —
just another fool demanding
correction from the facts
of the world.

It doesn’t matter what I think
or do. Doesn’t matter
whether I understand the orchids
bought from the supermarket
or how to get them to rebloom
once they are done —

doesn’t matter that I spent too long
before the video explaining that,
that the explanation took too long
for me; involved fermenting rice water,
hosing down the leaves, above all waiting;
I watched it all and even that took too long

so I turned it off and resigned myself
to it dying untouched; that I
would enjoy the remaining flowers
wondering how long they would last
before I had to toss the entire plant aside
like so much trash and move on —

focusing instead on something else,
something I hadn’t yet thought of —
my own thinning hair; my fingers’ clumsiness
on the antique guitar; my creaking groan
every time I bent from the waist;
my shrugging off the death of the plant

and everything else
that I carried.

I found myself suddenly
full of gasps at
random snatches of the song,
gulps of its sterling air,
times when I sat alone
breathing heavily
for hours at a time; and
I found myself in
a thicket of memories
waiting to be formed, denser
by the moment, wondering
how long it would take
for any of them
to settle into a final form; lastly,
I found myself unwilling
to see changes within;
to move from humble
to exalted and back again;
to resign to it all;
to lie back and hum
the old song from
when I was a kid
and all of this
was yet to come
and I expected
so much more;
when I did not
bow my head
before the remnants
of my life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

It doesn’t matter
what you used to say;
I don’t care that much
about the past.

Instead let’s speak
of now; not even
future times, just talk
about now. How about

this weather; how about
this wind and the threat
of rain? I know that’s
a problem of tomorrow,

but I suppose I can look
that far ahead. I am
allowed that much
time from then to address

now. I promise
it won’t become a habit.
I don’t have enough time left
to plant a habit, or tend one.

So then, now: there are
indeed some few birds outside
this room, talking together
in quiet voices. You can hear

distant cars; at this hour
it is likely only trucks, and
only a few of those. Light
wind. A touch of rain, maybe,

on the windowpanes. It feels
like I ought to get up and
face the imminent, shining day —
but isn’t it lovely staying

in bed, lying on my back
very, very still? I think
I laid down this way long ago
when I went to bed;

I think I could get used to this
in time, a year, maybe two,
maybe five years from now.
It doesn’t seem so far off.

I think I may have to do that.
Until then, let’s speak of
the current weather, the voices
of birds. Let’s talk of the moment,

this moment, this one brief
scissor-snip of time and
its contents, its sorrow and joy.
Talk to me; the last time, maybe,

you will have to say a word
or even make a sound for me
to hear. Probably not. But
we ought to live that way.

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

What I want right now is for the world
to stop shining so serenely.

It refuses. It does and takes its duties
and pleasures regardless of me.

I go on cursing it, demanding
that it changes, asking in despair

for it to shift to another mode.
None of my requests seem to be heard.

Instead, it doubles down as
winter closes in and the sky blackens

earlier each day. It promises Christmas,
Thanksgiving, joy of first snowfall, crunch

underfoot. I don’t much care
but I respect it, I guess.

At least it will be over someday, I tell myself.
I might just make it to spring and then it will be over.

Until then though I will sit alone in the apartment
and wish for it to come quickly — even though

unlike other years, I’ve gotten old and I fear this one.
Fear it like it has never been by here before.

Close the curtains, sit back down, pet the cat,
close my eyes, wait for morning to turn onward

into night as it always does so calmly,
with or without me shaking my fists.

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

Went looking for
an all-wire coat hanger
this morning to be bent
and reshaped to be
a radio antenna, to insert
into my broken antenna,
to extend the range, to make
a distant station better, to stop
the infernal static;

shocked and dismayed to see
I don’t have one, not a one.
My hangers are plastic, rarely
are wooden, don’t have a wire
component at all; I have
so many hangers and none
fill the bill.

I don’t want
this to be true. I am dismayed
by this. I don’t know
how I’m supposed to react —
thinking of all the times
I’ve bent one to open
a car door, stretched out one
to scratch an itch, used one
to do…well, anything you need to;
can’t think of more to do but
there must be something —

while I’m at it
I don’t dare mention
the radio in the car
stuck now on the same
station, not to mention
the now-useless buttons
on the radio, not to mention
the paucity of stations on the radio —

and don’t speak of the television
and its ridiculous commercials
telling you of every illness
you can’t cure and of
the death benefits and sickness payments
everyone is afraid of, if not now
then someday, if not someday
then now hidden in you frail body —

thus defeated I hang my head,
I keep the radio on with the static
and the meaning and the dropping
of the stations
and my own tremendous failures
and tiny triumphs of the will,
wondering how to make the station work
as it used to in the olden days
of wire hangers and hope.

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

The coffee is good, the day coming up
is good, the clothing I’ve chosen to wear,
the anticipation for breakfast: all good.
I’m good myself with nothing beyond
the usual halt in my step and the coldness
of my hands and the space in my head
where memory used to sit and hold court.
I’m pretty good, actually. I’m damned OK
with how I am, just dandy with what I am
now. Granted that there’s a difference
between my past and my present; after all
I disremember the old days. They’re a blank.
There is a sort of cloud between me and the memory
of them. They are blocked out with only a piece
showing up now and then like a coin dropped
in a fountain or more appropriate to the experience,
like a coin left on a railroad track to flatten.
Ever notice how warm the pennies were after the train
passed? I liked that warmth. I remember it,
I think; it’s a blur, though. Do I recall it
or am I making it up? It doesn’t matter,
I guess. The day coming up
is good anyway; the clothes I’m wearing
are the same as yesterday’s, and there is
an unimportant coffee stain on the left sleeve
where I think I spilled yesterday. It doesn’t
matter what I did or didn’t do then.
I will likely do it again at some point.
See a penny, pick it up; put it in
your pocket; forget why you put it there;
lay in on the track to get ruined.

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

Do you recall
burning leaf scent?
Air touched with hint of
you calling, crying out
for mercy?

Understand this:
you were loved once
by yourself and the random mob
until
suddenly, how changed
you had become.

You learned then consciously
what you had always known —
the truth of your being.
One day you saw the truth
not in an old mirror in your head
but instead in day to day life:
stinking, reeking of fire,
broken in plain view
of your own two ruined eyes.

You sat there staring at
what the mirror had said
and what you knew that
contradicted it:

you had become
an old man
looking at your self
and neither liking nor disliking it;
you just reluctantly
accepted yourself
and hoped others
would do the same.

But do you know
anything beside
the smell of burning leaves
and how crispy the very air
had become around you? Do you
understand the air around your pyre,
the place of your burning? Well,
close your eyes and try.

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

Finding fault with the leaves
of a nearby maple
because they are changing color;
the tree is stubbornly holding on to
the end of summer here but
doesn’t it know
it’s still warm, shouldn’t it ignore
what time of year it is?

Trying to identify clothing
I can still wear even though
it all hangs on me like shrouds
on a body, untucked,
moving with the slight breeze
picked up by my walking;
how do I not know my limits,
how is it that I forget them
until I see myself in a mirror?

Thinking of those millions of souls
I know, have met, hope
to meet, or will never meet;
how is it all of everything floats
with this chaos and I am
untouched, how it it
I am left alone to sleep
weeping, then worn from tears
I stare silently up
at the dim ceiling?

Chaining my heart
and all the rest of me
to whatever name
suits it best; each little thing,
each puzzle piece
remains the same
through the autumn
then changes suddenly
to almost winter
as it always does and always should;
why do I care so much about
how it will change? Why
does it matter to me?

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