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

I remember,
I remember —
what do I recall?

I recall
a man dying in Arizona,
falling to the earth after a hike.

I recall an old man dying
in Washington,
far from the New England hills.

I recall a young woman dying
from aggressive cancer
in Buffalo.

I knew a man
who died suddenly in the Catskills
in New York, again.

I think I knew a man who died
somehow by a gunshot
after he returned from Afghanistan.

I hardly knew a man,
more than one, dying of AIDS
somewhere.

I did not know a woman
who died of something, something
in Sacramento.

I did not know a man
who died on a street corner
in Florida, somewhere.

There have been
others, of course, who died in
various places, men and women,

young and old, famous and infamous
and not my friends or in deep closeness
to me.

All of them say nothing
to me now. Waiting, I guess,
for me to join them?

I remember,
I remember —
what do I remember?

The woman who died
in Buffalo told me, urgently
before she went on her way,

that there was something,
something she needed
to tell me, something vital,

something
she couldn’t recall —
and she never did.

When I go
I’ll be looking forward
to hearing it.

Of course it likely won’t matter then
and I will die forever ignorant
of it.

But I will be okay not knowing it
if I get to see any of them again,
if I can recall their names,

if I can speak their names,
if they even
remember their own names.

I will forget my own name
then. I remember, I recall —
what do I recall?

Nothing worth mentioning
to you, the living.
I close the door on all of this,

silently as if I am afraid
of these old words. I am not afraid
of anything any more,

and I look forward
to learning the new words
for all things.

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

Society,
bloated
gasbag of a monster,
full-throated tooth-
grinding shape of vanilla
and old blood gone new
again, keeps me
sharp —

I need to be sharp
to know it and avoid
the parts it sends to
devour me —

take the case of an old song
that moves me toward tears,
take the case of the radio
in total —

I need to be sharp against it
so that I do not fall asleep
humming along to
the old song as if I were
sixteen again, seventeen,
eighteen and

I’m in my old Chevy
with no one beside me
and for once in my misery
I’m happy and joyfully
singing along and I sound
perfect —

in line with what society
would come to dictate
through clenched teeth,
soothing me nevertheless,
whispering sweetness in poison
as if there was no one
who could touch me
on my way to Nirvana
or Heaven or some such place —

eighteen again
and locked down
to what, I can’t imagine —

not in sixty five years,
not in a lifetime,
not in either
a dull future
or the sharpened, dimming
remembrance
of a brighter past.

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

The cat is awake,
looking for food, purring
almost silently.

Blood pressure
a tad high, blood sugar less so, and
I’ve lost another three pounds.

I am lost without
a damn thing to do
in the whole damn world,

but I’m getting better,
or so the doctors say.
I think I must say the same

or risk it — all of it.
So I keep busy. I try
not to think about it,

my life and death,
my damaged heart,
my blown-out brain.

I can’t think about it,
after all, without screeching
to a halt.

The halt comes whenever
I close my ruined, repaired eyes.
So I keep them open until

I fall asleep. Then, I wake up
and do all this again.
It gets old so fast.

This morning I remember
my dream; I was a student
in a failing high school in New Jersey,

making gentle, raucous friends;
riding around in a Jeep;
smoking weed and laughing,

always laughing. Then
I woke up. Went through
my morning routine

of testing and shaking my head
at the results.
It gets old so fast

I don’t have time
to think about the dream
while I sit around

and think, or not,
of what I have to do
or not do. But

I think about it.
Yes, I do. I think about it
and about taking

one catastrophic step
toward determining
if that dream has legs

or not, if it can carry me
anywhere I’m not,
anywhere but here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
T