Starting from the right side
of your continent, if you are looking at 
a map as drawn according to custom,
with North at the top, South at the bottom,
East to the right and West to the left;

starting from your side 
of the continent, if you are thinking of
the land you are on as your own, or at least
as a point of departure toward 
what is not yours, not home, not yet
familiar ground;

starting from the one thing you can trust,
then: start from here, start now. Whatever
direction you choose, now,
start from here and now. Drive or
walk, take a train; stay on land and
refuse flights.  If the way you go
crosses water, take to a boat or a ship,
or wade through if you can. Start

with memory and souvenirs
of this starting place
tucked away in a bag or pocket and
go in whatever direction calls you.

There has to be a better fit somewhere.
There has to be better north, south, 
east or west of here; up, down, right
or left of here.

Travel.  Burn your feet out. Strain your legs
to snapping. Fall down at the end of the day.

Put your ear on the stones underfoot every night
before you sleep and listen for them
to sing a welcome to a here and now
you haven’t felt for a while.  Hum along
until you know the words. Fake
your comfort until you feel it;

until starting from here,
starting now,
once again is something
at least a little like
being home.

Has your time here 
been a bass line
or a click track — 

did it ripple, 
did it march,
was it supple or

martial? Are there
fingerprints on
its flow, evidence of

choices, decisions,
imprecision,
or was it set in motion

early and
left to carry you
without shift or confusion

forward to this
void where you find yourself
now, pausing before 

a coda can begin
to see beyond
the overgrowth of

melody and lyric
with which you’ve
over-busied yourself

and discern whether
there was an organic
flow to your life,

or were you in fact
driven to closure
without deviation or 

flourish — and before
you resume, do you
want your time to end

as it began, or will you 
take time and wrestle it
to another path — set it

swinging or set it straight,
if for no other reason than to see
what you might have missed?

I’d rather be
a horn 
in a great
player’s hands, or

a stout pocketknife
sitting on a woodcarver’s 
bench waiting
to whittle; 

I imagine there’s a master’s 
breath pouring through me
with some great song, or
a master’s hand wielding me

to pull a dragon from
a block of rosewood.
Channel, not channeler;
vessel to be emptied

of what has filled me
from a source, the Source.
I am nothing here but
glad to be of service,

seeing myself
as what rests in the Hand
of the Maker and what will be
laid aside when all is done.

My old left hand
feels so strange today
with its new little bend
that limits
how well it holds
and hangs on

but with it I cradle the stone
I raised years ago
from the bed
of a pond
where I swam
daily for a summer
when I was twelve,

a white stone chased 
with black smears, laced
with mica stars, lifted
from the rich stew
at the bottom in 
the deepest part
of that pond the first time
I touched bottom, swimming
straight down to snatch it
and bring it back with me

to where I burst
through the surface into
late morning sun, holding it
tighter than I can now
with this weakened paw:
bursting up to the air back then
from the silted water,
taking a great breath
as I breached;
a browned, slim boy
coming into my own
so many years ago
that I cannot recall if I
was as alone then
as I am now:

neither slim nor browned,
not wholly alone in life
but solo in this moment,
hanging on
to what hard treasure
I may find 
in deep, unfamiliar
places. 

My left hand 
soaked in oil:

those are the first words
I heard this morning,
if you can call 
how they came to me
“hearing.”

It’s not
a true descriptor, but
as close as I can get 
to how the words come
so I call that hearing 
and hearing it is,

much as my left hand
feels dry with no apparent
oil upon it yet I trust
what I’ve heard about this,
I don’t argue when I hear
words this way: clearly,

my left hand’s soaked
in oil.  Up to me

to figure out if perhaps
it is magic oil
I can’t see or feel
that shines in darkness,  
or maybe a social oil that
gets on me from others
and later ignites
when I try to reach out,
or in some way a deep soul oil
that seeps out of me and
covers me wrist to fingertips
and it’s only on my left hand
to reveal to me once again
what I forget and forget:
how hard it is to hold fast
to what is closest to my heart.

My left hand soaked in oil,
shining at dawn. Perhaps
all it means is that oil

is a decoration, a highlight
reminding me to celebrate
my weakest parts, even as
I write this all down 
with my right hand.

If you are a bear for truth
and have read this far, tell me 
what you think it means 

for it seems that all I know
has become slippery,
falling again and again
out of my grasp

no matter how many times
and how tenderly
I listen to the words
I hear upon waking,

no matter how faithful I am
to the words.

1.
In these sullen days
a half smile has become
a badge of subversion.
In these enraged times
any peaceful face has become
enraging.

In the white fingered
company of the ones
who dance confidently,
well-gloved
and bespoke-booted,
at their self-congratulatory
banquets, to be barefoot
and casual 
invites punishment
and raises alarm.
Being at odds kills you
here.

Taking a side 
kills you too but
you’ll have company 
when you die,

while those
left out of all sides might die but
might be left standing as
either proof of or contradiction
of dialectic,
but they will be
as alone afterward
as they were 
beforehand. 

2.
Today I am
in a process of dying
no matter how
you look at me:
dressed down,
worn down, well over
halfway along, staring at
this side of the long hill
I’ve crested,
looking down,
picking up speed.

3.
Ah well, I tell myself
as I start to roll,
I prefer not dancing.
I prefer not wearing
such damned clothing.
Soon I’ll feel such a wind on
my poverty skin, in my
blood-sugared hair, that
I might forget that I never
figured out
who I was or where
I belonged.