Death, mystery passage —
wondering this morning
what it’s like —
this morning when it seems close
and ordinary to consider it —
when my memory seems perfect
and ordered just so,
when I feel so sweet and
normal — no sense
of dread or impending doom;
just the cold in my hands
and a list of small chores
to be done to leave the home
in order for my love to grieve
quietly, with a sigh; death
one last trip to take, one final task
to undertake — and what will come after
still not known, a shrug
not a scream, tales of heaven
and hell dismissed, maybe
the old story of crossing a divide
in the mountains is right or perhaps
there is nothing, nothing at all;
death at last is nothing at all,
death means nothing at all
and any story of what comes after it
is too fantastic to tell.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Tag Archives: aging
Mystery To Me
Past The Running Car
The long night
continues, long after
it should be over.
Don’t feel like rising;
don’t feel anything, really.
A dog trots by, indifferent
to the lonely car running
by the curb. It’s dark outside
and getting darker; you slept
through the daylight
and ended up back in the dark.
Surprise: you damn fool,
you missed the glorious day
wishing for permanent night.
You could have gotten up
for it. You could have risen
and beaten the dog to his pathway
past the car and toward —
toward what, exactly? The car
keeps running. The dark
returns. The darkness,
as always, returns
and the car runs and the dog
will turn toward you
and then back to trotting
its path. You can’t stand it,
can you? You weren’t meant to —
you were meant to stay behind,
sit on the cold sidewalk, trying
to weep but failing,
watching the dog trundling away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Recollection
I recall
her, nude,
her back toward me,
covered with symbols I would not
care to calculate my way through
until after, after;
then there
was the time she was not there
and I longed for symbols, for numbers,
anything at all; closed my eyes,
tried to remember, tried so hard
and nothing, nothing.
If only
I had a flashback engine to carry
my mind there, to the edge
of presence, to chug and huff
toward real memories and visions
or anything like them;
but now
that engine seems broken,
shattered or nonexistent — now
I am shattered myself or nonexistent.
Now is all I have. I don’t recall
the name for anything, especially her;
now seems
the eraser, the scrubber
of dreams and longing is all there is
to wrap myself inside, and I am left
bereft but somehow satisfied with that —
now I am parted from her, and so it continues —
brief pang
of longing, of mystery’s
dumb dim light on my ruined eyes;
wondering again
what name I should call her
should she improbably return.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Walking Downhill
Held in the feeling
of always walking down hill,
even when climbing stairs.
Sensing animals
hurtling by, barely in
in the edge of sight;
unfamiliar creatures —
sentient, wary, and
inadvertently deadly, I hear;
things almost seen
are surging together
to kill me, maybe, and
I can’t seem to stop that;
I can’t help that
gravity and the weakened ghost
of the strength in my legs
is compelling me
to approach them.
The Simple Brutality Of Aging
In awe of the simple brutality
of aging:
not that
it’s without beauty,
or that joy is not
present, even in the moment
when you know
your true age at last
and it’s exactly right
as it is, even
as it assumes the mantle
of finality; when it settles upon you
that you are exactly
the right age, soaking
up that brief moment
becomes the work of a lifetime.
The simple brutality
of it: the casual swift recognition
that while this may not be the end,
it surely is trending. It surely
has a feel to it,
and this is how it feels.
Clumsy Blues
When the cat
at last stepped out from under
the bed covers,
she came first
to the dry food dishes
in the border land between
pantry and kitchen,
then into the living room
with half-lidded eyes;
sat down smack in the middle
of the grey rug
looking for all the world
like a reluctant barroom audience
as I picked with
recovering skills
at the Telecaster
not long ago set aside
for my illness,
my wrecked ability;
only recently taken up again
to bat around
as a cat might play with
doomed prey.
Unimpressed,
she turned back
to the bedcovers to dream
of blues I’ll never play again —
not in this, the eighth
of my alleged nine lives
that is also the sixth
of hers, that is the last one
of someone else’s allotted haul.
All of this is to say
that when I sit back now,
I sit at my leisure
knowing I’ve not much longer to play.
This cat who will outlast
my last poor song
can stay under the blanket.
I’ll be there as well before too long,
thinking:
Let me sleep for now.
I’ll be satisfied one day soon.
I’ll have had enough of these clumsy blues.
I’ll set the guitar down for good.
Vaseline Tiger, Mostly Retired
He’s the shit.
One of Bowie’s
original vaseline tigers.
Moving with tide, hiding
his creaks and fears;
a good snake sliding by
on fearsome wholesome
appearance and
remnant style.
He’s the shit
or used to be
and lives for that
more than is safe
for someone of his age,
and surely we should thank
some god
for that.
It’s All In Where You Ripen
Looking back
at your past
and pointing
and shouting until breath
is punched out of you
by time
and awareness of time
as you tell everyone:
back there is the age
when I was
at my best, most fully me;
now that I am
no longer that
I do not know who
this older gentleman pointing
back to me must be
although he bears my name
and my memories.
I am not myself these days.
This is what ripening
to your peak on the tree
then falling to the ground
and left to spoil there
does to you.
Not to me.
I’m no
gentleman. I ripened
after I fell
onto this ground and
on this ground
these seeds of mine
can matter more
than I did
and because I never was
good enough to pick
when I was on that tree,
I am perfect now.
A Memory Of Clearing
Fearing that my edge will fail
when I most need it to stay
sharp and ready
is to imagine myself
dropped upon rock,
dulled so profoundly
I would be tossed aside
for some newer blade,
left behind like my memory
of singing through air
long ago, opening a clearing
in which to build.
Was I ever that, though —
that honed, that useful?
I look back and see nothing
like a clearing there —
just metal discarded, glinting
like lost potential.
Bruce Springsteen Has Canceled His Tour
Bruce Springsteen is canceling his tour
because he has a peptic ulcer
I’m canceling mine too
because Bruce has a peptic ulcer
and if he can’t go on why should I bother trying
I’m pulling back from all my road gigs
in favor of gastric peace and quiet myself
after years of having few fans to speak of
gnawing anxiety that felt like a hole deep within
and a virus-broken voice that’s ready to give out
It’s not like I listen to Bruce much anymore
Though I used to listen to Bruce all the time
I know I’ve seen my last show
Something about pushing it feels wrong to me
You ought to know when something stops feeding you
it’s going to turn around and eat you alive
I’m not saying it’s that way for Bruce
I’m saying it’s that way for me
I don’t read many books anymore
I’m too busy pretending I write them
I don’t listen to much music anymore
I’m too busy pretending I play some
Truth is I’m too busy not bleeding to death
to imagine a world where I’m healthy enough
to keep being a fan of the things that I love
I’m too frantically madly behind the times
and the hole in my gut and the crack in my voice
are too huge to fill when I finally admit it
Bruce Springsteen has canceled his tour
I never made plans to see it
but I’m shocked at myself and who I’ve become
that all I did when I heard
was shrug
Ride Through
Ride through
time of day, not
a stop and see time.
That bar looks
as old-man bar
as any I have seen.
Maybe once
a biker place. Never
have seen one there.
As curious as I am
I will never go in.
It’s on my way home
but too far from home
for a quick stop. If I stopped I know
I would stay long enough to die
driving back on Route 190,
Route 2, Route 290, heading home —
I would one day not get there.
Whoever this is now
in here is not that old man
just when I fit the part at last.
I could nurse whiskies
a whole late afternoon
and evening in there.
I would be unmemorable
but later someone watching
the local news would ask the bartender,
“wasn’t that the guy?”
and the bartender would say,
“Yeah, maybe. Never saw him
before a week or two ago. Pity —
seemed ok. Just quiet. Didn’t say
much. Seemed to have
stuff on his mind.”
I would have had stuff
on my mind. I always
have stuff on my mind
which is why I don’t stop
at the Paddock Lounge
on my way home.
I make it my faith
to stay away. It’s always
ride through time, never
stop in for a quick one time.
I used to be that guy. Even
if I still am I don’t want him
out in public. I know him,
I know what would happen.
These Latter Days
These days
I can listen to a song
and not like it for itself
(whatever that means —
for the totality, the wash
of what it is and how it sounds)
but still enjoy it for how
its rhythm guitar snakes around
and under keyboards or how
the drummer’s a touch
behind the beat or what that vocalist’s
surprising choices do
to amplify the meaning
or meanings if it’s
“one of those songs
with more than one;” I can dig
its parts while not digging
the whole wrapped package.
This is how it’s been
for years now — digging
treasures out of dirt
or soil if you prefer; it’s rarely
for joy in the song or singer
that I sit back now and close my eyes.
That is in fact how I take all my joy
in these latter days;
in clumps, in pieces, not as a whole.
It does not lessen
my joy that this is true;
rather, it concentrates my savoring
of what I have dug free
from the world, what
I have unearthed.
If you see me with my eyes closed
before the beauty of some ocean
at sunset, please let me be.
I am here in the now, here to be swept up
in the sound of daylight leaving
with no promise of another day.
Iris Aftermath
What did the iris learn
as its bloom browned
and became thin as paper
before falling?
The iris is not dead.
The swordplay of the leaves
goes on. If anything
they’ve grown longer.
Almost summer now
and no shade
other than green
in the border of the yard
where the irises grow.
Nothing other than green
to draw in the casual eye.
One might say
the irises have become background.
From the annual brief riot of purple
they learned to thrive, to be here
no matter who sees them,
to trust in a future
where they will bloom again
even after their superficial charms
have failed to endure.
Restrung
My all-consuming problems
converge in this ancient guitar
that sounds barely fine today
Not as fine as it did a year ago
It needs some work just to be solid again
but even now it’s too expensive to repair
The cost will double over time
so it remains here in the spare closet
as a memory of what it used to offer
A reminder that pain can sound like
the strangled tone and sharp chirp
of treble strings
when they try too hard to respond
to an urgent upstroke
A request to make it sound like it used to
only makes it more obvious that it can’t
This fragile guitar is past its prime
waiting to explode from the pressure
of being tuned to an accepted idea
of what is right and good and worthy
I restrung it yesterday and played old songs
and thought of new ones I might try
With a softer touch I drew something forth
It briefly felt like music could still live here
I See Stars
Irritating. Whiny.
Unpleasant fuckup.
A mistake, a problem
come to stay.
One disease
after another, one system
creaking along
but just barely.
Waking up
every morning, dammit.
Not what was prayed for.
Not what I’d hoped for.
This is not the way I thought
it would go.
What some call
coming into grace
I call sliding into
a grave with no purchase
to be had from the sides
of the hole.
Can’t even hold on
as I go; I can’t
close my hands and
can’t feel much anyway
as I’m numb from the prints
to the bone. To the bone:
it’s the bone I desire
to find in the mirror —
but there’s too much flesh left
to cover it. I despair out loud: after all
I’m a whiny fuckup, I despair
of ever getting to see the bone,
ever getting to see myself
as more than incipient dead. It is as if
the universe itself is out to mock me
that in looking up from the grave, I see stars.
Dark Matter 