Tag Archives: meditations

Party Clothes

The party’s over.

The roof’s 
been on fire
and now it’s coming down
despite all the efforts 
to save it.

The streamers
plummet onto us
stuck to burned bricks
and beams; the air
feels smoky and wet
all at once.

You’d better grab whatever you can
if you decide to run —
it may be better to die here, of course;
choose while you still can.

How slow
the implosion
of the great hall;
how long it has taken
to cave in; how many years
of small deaths
from early debris
that taught us nothing,

and now here we are
in our party clothes
trying to dodge catastrophe,
wondering if there’s time

for a last dance.


Your Fire

Scorch
earth or skin,
burn
bridge or eyes.

What you
do with your fire
is yours
to choose —

put it out, even,
or confine it
to a hearth
and home. Pick

a commonplace
for it or
go on and bust 
the box, let flame roll

across
metaphorical
prairie,
metaphysical

skyline. Or
put it out, quench it,
drown it,
smother it — 

not my flame circus,
not my
hot monkey
to tame. Only this:

if it dies
unheeded, the cold
you feel will be
forever.


Three Strawberry Plants

I spent a few hours today
uncaught up in worry.

That’ll have to be
all for one day, or a 
year; all the time
I’m likely to get
free of the shackle 
of fear.

I could say
more about that

but instead,
let’s discuss how it happened;
let’s discuss

three strawberry plants 
I moved on impulse 
into the greenhouse
when their bed,
rotted and old,
had collapsed;
let’s talk of them

now blooming in their
temporary pots and 
how the ground might
be warm enough
soon enough
to take them back.

Let’s talk about me
doing something right
purely on instinct
and how
that small success 

keeps me.


Flaws

How my right index fingernail curls under,
causing it to hook guitar strings,
requiring attention and constant care.

How my semi-polytheistic agnosticism
screws up conversations about
the nature of reality.

How my fatness and my diabetes
are connected and correlated by others;
endless, wearying blood and food vigilance

for the latter has led to a decrease
in the former, which is less of an issue for me
yet is always a source of first comment for others

praising me for decreasing in size;
I tell them it’s because of illness, 
they say “but still…” and I let it ride.

How inconsistent I am
in love for any and all, 
essentially a damn island

when it comes to honoring
connection; how selfish I am
at heart; how mechanically I surmount that

for the sake of appearance; how easy
I find it to dissemble in such a way;
how frightened I am of slipping.

How flat my feet, how dumb my legs
for running; how silly my eyes look
when I am trying to forget what I’ve seen.

How death smells like roses
wherever I find it waiting round the corners
on my path. How I love the smell of roses.

How easily I could make this list
last and last, growing longer and 
wider, faster and faster with the piling on.

How thin these scratches on my surface
that nonetheless 
go all the way through.


The Origin Of Language In Dread

Imagine the second
when the first proto-human

to have their consciousness flicker
from “just before human” 
into “fully human”  

looked around at the other
apes-on-the-brink

and felt for the first time
humanly, utterly alone.

It was likely enough
to drive them back
over the threshold into
the comfort of animal thought,
but it left a residue of that fear,

an ember within
which flared and faded, flared and faded,
until the fire could spread at last to others.
They had burned for want of that first language,
were burned by the terror
that there were none like them.

Imagine the joy
when the First Word was spoken,
understood, repeated — 
rain on blistered skin,

upraised faces inventing song.


Light And Dark

It’s too early for there to be
so much light in the room.

I’ve gotten so used to rising in the dark
that I can’t stand morning,

begrudging how it has taken to
beginning without me;

when I realize
my self-centeredness,

I laugh — to think
that I have held myself

in such regard. But I’m still
not rising, not yet;

not until I shake off
my regret at not having kept up

with spring, my remorse
at not having kept up at all.

I’ve slept till ten or beyond
more than once since the light

began to grow so early.
I do it because I can,

because nothing compels me
to rise lately — no call to work,

no call to be at all alive
until nearly noon;

no words within
begging for the Light.

It’s too early for them 
to be clamoring so hard,

or perhaps too late; either way
it’s been so quiet in there, who knows

what is steeping
inside me — something

that prefers
the Dark.


Behavior

I only want of you
what I can see you do,
what I can hear you say.

You intentions matter
to me, but they are not
what I need most — do

or do not, speak or 
remain silent; that’s 
where I will find you

at your most clean
and uncluttered. That’s where
we should meet — 

in the groove cut by our
behavior; that is where
you should seek me as well,

among my own voiced
and acted moments; let’s leave
the philosophy up on the high ground

we’ve cut through to get here.
Hold each other.  Hear each other.
Stay here, in the ground we’ve made.


Problematic

Originally posted 10/22/2015; revised, 4/2016; revised again, 5/8/2016.

I have seen too often
how much of the holy I know
was made by devils — 

I should burn this church without mourning.
I light it, but I cannot smile while I do.
I’m sorry.

Nothing’s shining now under the sun.
What I know, what made me,
whatever I have made my own

is problematic, a fallen forest full of shock.
Felled trees row upon row,
no one seems to have heard a thing.

I should have known.
Should have been listening all along
for the sound of clear cutting.

Evil disguised itself
as birdsong and brook,
hymns to the betrayed sun,

slew and laid waste on my watch.
All the holy I know
is 
devils’ work,

and it falls upon me now
with a roar like a deadfall,
a huge and broken tree.

I’m sorry, but I do mourn it
a little. I mourn it as it falls upon me.
I’m sorry for mourning,

but I do, even as I see
the need for this reckoning,
even as I join in a call for it.

Once-honored voices
have failed so miserably
at being their professed truth; 

they are part of what I am, 
as is now my disgust 
at how I have loved them; 

 

as is my confusion 
at how I love them, even now,
knowing what I know.


The One About That Suggested Letter To My Younger Self

I wonder,
if ever I am able to do this,

how I should greet
the reader of such a letter:

Dear You?
Dear Me?
Dear Tony, this is also Tony?
That last might work best —

I’ll assume that if we ever develop
a way to do this, we’ll know at once
because letters will have flown
back and forth
throughout history and such transit
will be commonplace;

that we don’t know now
that this happens
suggests that it never happens,
but let’s put that issue
aside for now — 

if I get the opportunity
to write the first line to follow
that debacle of a salutation,

if ever I write one and
a delivery method is developed
for such a thing, my first line
shall be an exhortation:

burn this now, 
read no further, 
take no advice
from it; it took
knowing nothing at all
at that age
for you to learn
what little you know
at this age.

If it ever happens,
the evidence suggests
this approach will work.

It’s proof that I never
learned to take
advice, except

it also
proves that at least once,
I did;

but it also proves
that at least once
I did not break the rules
given to me 
and indeed,
I read no farther;
of course 

there’s the possibility that
I simply ignored
my own advice,
which proves
how little we change
after a certain age;

or it may be that I’ve sent my letter
to a self who never received it,
and someone in the past
is reading my letter
and becoming a better man than I am
by taking the advice.

Most likely of all of these
is the possibility

that it sits
in a dead letter box somewhere,
forever unread in the void; proving
without a doubt that

spewing heartfelt words
in a futile effort to change an indifferent past
is in fact all I was ever meant to do.


The Fitzpatrick Scale

Reached into a paper bag full of concepts.

Pulled out a handful of calories,
a small clump of degrees Celsius,
one or two 
ohms, a sole ampere; was

disappointed that I had not come up
with the light-year 
I had imagined
might be lurking somewhere within;

was glad I hadn’t
freezer-burned my palm upon 
a Kelvin
or seared it with roentgens. 

Nonsense, you say. That makes no sense.
Those things do not exist

without application to existence — 

we simply measure
what is real with them; 
we measure what is real
with what is unreal.

For instance, depending on the circumstances
there are several measures one can use
for the differences
between colors, to distinguish between
one shade and another
of what we are viewing.

Those differences are defined numerically
after viewing selected images or samples
with sophisticated instruments;
for easier visualization
the results are plotted
onto one of a number of different charts
called “color spaces.”

There are different color spaces
for different applications — scientific
or graphic design — no one standard
works in all cases —

we measure what is real with
the unit we create for our purposes;
we measure what is real
with what is unreal.

The Fitzpatrick Scale
is a color space
for human skin tones,
developed to help understand
concepts related to the rate
of absorption of ultraviolet light
by various shades
of human skin.

The Unicode Standard,
a computer industry agreement 
defining how characters
should be represented
in computer text across languages, 

uses the Fitzpatrick Scale
to ensure uniform representation
of various human skin tones
when creating the symbols
known as “emojis.”

Sixty-four Unicode Standard emojis use
the Fitzpatrick Scale
to represent men,
boys, women,
girls, fists, thumbs
up and down…

We use an unreal
to measure a real,
then use it to create
an unreal used to represent
another unreal;

Unicode Standard says, hey,
we’re just trying to keep it real.

It is currently
both real and unreal that

some carry a Fitzpatrick Scale
in hand or head 
to measure the darkness of heart
of any given individual;
evil rises, it seems to them,
by the same increase in degree 
of ultraviolet absorption
their skin can tolerate — if 
the skin matches this sample,
they seem to say, 
fire
when ready.

The Hatcher Factor is
an old and contested formula
for determining the stopping power
of a bullet of specific caliber.

Most experts agree that it is based
on outdated information,

but all also agree
that any bullet well placed
will break any skin
regardless of its place
on the Fitzpatrick Scale.

Reach into the paper bag of concepts again;
come up empty handed.
In spite of all our work
to measure what is real

we apparently have no way
to calibrate fear and mockery,
the banality of reduction, 
the weight of dispassionate killing:

there’s apparently
no color space large enough
for all the shades of tears.

 


Brightwork

In this sullen practice
of mine is the root of
happiness.

If you must ask
why it is therefore called
a sullen art,
understand that I practice it
knowing that any happiness
that may grow from it 
will only rarely
be my own

yet I sit myself down
and work at it daily,
pounding on dark metals
to make brightwork
from them
that others will look at
and rejoice in
after I’m gone.

No, there’s no why beyond
how much it needs doing; no,
there’s no explaining how it chooses
its apprentices; no, there’s not much 
to recommend it as a lifestyle
beyond that potential for 
making joy for others and 
slight immortality.  No,

there’s no reason to become 
a brightworker in words,

other than the impossibility
of becoming anything else.


Newbie

A certain level of fatigue
has become required
for credibility.

Express your freshness
and willingness to get going on something
and you will be made to feel small.

There will be disbelief
followed by knowing chuckles
and head nods, murmurs of

“newbie, naive, that’ll change,” perhaps
a grudging offer from someone
to take you under their cynical wing.

Don’t do it.  Don’t fall in.
Run screaming from them and don’t lose
a minute of sleep over it.

You’re wide awake and you still believe
in daylight and morning.  Hold on to that.
As far as can be told, there are no plans

for that to ever end while we’re alive.
You’re awake. Stay awake. You’re refreshed.
Stay refreshed. Dark things are afoot, it’s true,

but you shine, and you reflect so much else that shines
that there’s a chance, a real chance, 
that some part of what we need dwells with you.


The Day I Opened My Mouth

Emptied by the force
of breaking a bad habit,
I’ve crumpled a bit — a slight 
deformation only,
a temporary folding
of internal time and space
by the suddenness
of the vacuum.

I can never return to
my first shape,
never again
be smooth and shiny
and ready to hold
whatever is offered
or poured into me,

but I will expand.
I will return to my 
full capacity, or at least
I will expand enough
to contain my expected
multitudes; at least, that
is my intent. If somehow

it is never met, if somehow
I remain this crushed — 
or worse, if I break open along
a seam or sharp fold and must then
be tossed aside, it will be

intent that carries me
to an end I am meant for 
if my purpose and impact
cannot.  

I will not pretend on that day
not to be 
disappointed,
but I will never say

I did not know it was coming,
and I will not regret the day
I opened my mouth
to pour out for good
what I’d borne for too long.


Looking Back

I’ve walked through 
many open doors
in my time; 
some I opened myself,
more were opened
for me by others;
a critical few
blown open by 
the vagaries of Fate;

my weakness has always been
my inability to close them behind me,
my unchecked urge to spend my energy
forever turning around to see through
that long tunnel of entrances become exits.

I’d love for one day
to have people say of me,

“He knew when to close
a door behind him — when to 
simply shut it firmly, when to 
lock it and choose well
whether to pocket
or toss the key; when
to nail it shut and brick it up —

and most of all,
he knew enough
how to look behind him without
stumbling as he moved forward.”


The World At War

How many must still enjoy
World War II
that it rolls endlessly on
basic cable channels
newsreel upon newsreel
propaganda piled on
propaganda

getting what must be
satisfactory ratings

There’s never been a time
in my entirely postwar life
when I could not find a program
somewhere on the schedule
that once again
laid it all out
from Poland to Nagasaki

I think it must be
the machinery
the tanks and planes and ships of course
but more 
the effortless conversion
of men into cogs

and the smoke
and the sorrow of the enemy
and the burning of the bodies
and the smiles upon victory

a barely concealed
glee and fascination

with all the permissions 
that were granted
for horrible actions

and at last the resolution
that has allowed for
a lifetime of sequels