he was
the wrong guy 

for damn near every job —
modest brain and small brawn
built for clumsy
not for comfort
or smart 
or speed —

had one decent trait —
a modicum of skill
at stitching memory
to current events, then
making a song of sorts
from them — when
the memory started to go,
that went with it — it wasn’t 
much of a thing in the first place
so — 

he was
not pretty at all

in his own eyes — acted
like he was because 
someone told him that’s how
you get over but mostly

he was 
ridiculous

rankly bad at times
when it suited his cowardice
to be so but mostly just 
criminally lazy when it came to
right action —

his heart admittedly was
mostly in the right place
even if it was small and
moved around too much to ever
be a great anchorage —

he was
unreliable as narrator
and as man —

still he was

somehow loved by more than a few

which (he alone
knowing himself in full)
puzzled him enough that
he did not trust such love
to last and so

he was alone when he passed — 

it would be romantic to describe him as 
tortured but 

his struggle never
rose far enough into epic territory
and never led
to epic enough art

for the description to be apt —
the wrong guy really
for that — 

we say instead
he was throughout
a self-inflicted wound — 

now that at last
he’s not

we wish him peace and healing
wipe a scant tear away —

then
the forms having been observed

turn back to
whatever we were doing
before we found out

how dead he finally was 

Letting this night go,
this bird or giant moth, 
as it’s leaving us behind, flying off 
on powder-soft wingbeats.

It’s been either mystery
or mistake, no doubt, but we’re not
getting another word as it goes
away; we’re being left to fill

everything in — what it was, what it
said and how it spoke.  It will not
serve us to make up too much, but neither
will it be good for anyone to leave gaps

where we imagine the truth should fit.
We should tell what truth we know
whenever we can, even if the night
left much unsaid. So let’s sit

on a bench in the dark and talk
until we think we understand, or 
understand enough to say plainly
what we think we know, what we

are willing to commit to: how to interpret
the mystery, how to fix the mistake,
how to get to dawn from here as the night
rises on silent wings, wounded or not

but resisting in
the only way it knows:
by not giving up a secret without
a sacrifice or an offering.

An infant soul drowses
in clear Hands,
waiting

for a return to human life,
or for a return from human life
back to the Center.

Which it will be
it does not know
in this moment before it wakes.

It knows that if it is destined
to return to a human form,
it will not have peace like this again

for a long while —
but it will have sunsets and dawns 
and seas and snows and love

and striving and sweat,
and perhaps worse things but 
perhaps better things too.

It knows that if it is destined
to leave human form behind
and return to the Center,

what will come will likely be
unchanging, and sweet as
honey, and unchanging, and 

soft as a warm spring, and
unchanging, and filled with
joy, and unchanging.

The infant soul
opens its eyes as it is released by
those shining Hands 

into its next place. 
What it knows then
is a question,

given those possibilities,
about what to hope for 
and what to dread.

that lost world
of revered light
and startling beings

prim grandma
stealing sugar packets
tucking them into an old purse

odd uncle
pulling quarters from nowhere
as if the air were a bank

fading faces
of mother and father
and siblings barely to be seen

but sharp pencil sketches
of schoolmates recalled
as if drawn yesterday

kissing till breathless
in dark corners found
throughout that lost world

that lost world
of plentiful work
and good sweat

party laughter
on worn porches
all weekend long

rare moments of petty anger
dispatched with handshakes
after flurries of small punches

music that made
laughter and struggle
easier somehow

sound sleep
unpunctuated by thunder
or trauma 

what seemed to be
hope sifting over all
of that lost world

that lost world is
now rolling out of frame
a stray marble

later to be stumbled over
sending a body flying
to hard landing

never as ideal as imagined
it was built
to hide itself

even as it swallowed all
in its illusion
of raising all at once

still it held
much joy and much love
in its pockets

as that lost world
fades from sight
it does not feel wrong to weep

My daddy used to
ride a motorcycle
long ago. Put it away
before I could get 
enamored of it but
I knew and loved that
pipe music
almost before I could
speak. 

Pulled it
out again
only after he retired,
thinking, I guess,

I was safe enough
by then from
two-wheeled lust
for him to throw a leg over,
get back on. Later his hips

messed up even that
short run for freedom, 
and the bike was sold

before I could speak up for it —

now, I’ve never owned a road bike
and only ridden small ones a few times
in the woods and then only
when my daddy wasn’t around

but somehow

I dance to pipe music more these days

and somewhere in the dark 
beyond my father’s eventual

departure, I can see myself
throwing a leg over
something big and loud and
noisy and all mine

before my own bones tell me no,
before I become
deadened to that rough skirling
clatter,

before I forget him completely.

Blood or blues — time
to choose my drink 
for tonight — to sip
rage or rue —

It’s afternoon —
dark’s not terribly far
off — some light
remains — do I choose

blood or blues —
do I sit in cold
with sadness in
my mouth or

raise heat and roll
with the rising —
go out hot
to smash or soar

Blood or blues — I could
go either way but it’s time
to choose — move or slump
or dance or dim

until I’m barely here — or
ball myself into fire and 
go out burning —
time to choose

blood or blues 
Living past dying or cooling
and sliding into darkness —
do I choose blood or blues

tree-shadows
outside the window

what’s under-bed
whose hand you’re imagining
under there

how to fix this

suddenly
trying to recall
what you forgot
what might burst into flame
what you left behind

how to fix this

how should you have phrased that
did he mean what he said
did you misinterpret it
how could you have been
so stupid

how to fix this

word salad clumsy
rose petal mistakes and
what might it mean when
they are often

how to fix this

does pride go before
a trip and where could
you go where you might
feel pride again

can anyone seeing you
see all this
hear all this and are they going to wait
for you to fix it
do they fear you fixing it
do they care anymore if
you fix this

knowing exactly how to fix this
exactly how to fix this
how to make it stop
make it stop 

never being touched again
OH

how to fix this
exactly right
perfectly well

how much will it hurt
is there a way to fix it
that won’t hurt
that will be like sleeping

finding nothing there once it has stopped
finding no way to restart once it has stopped
finding this fix doesn’t fix it

trees

hands

to be touched again

Cross with the 
olive skin
of others, angry at
accommodations
being made for
others, saddened by
changed hearts of others,
furious at condoned loves
of others, terrified of
the desperation of others,
worried about the money
of others, enraged by
all the ways of others,
explanations of others,
reasons of others,
reasons for others,
art by others, music by
others, the taste and flavor
of Otherness itself…yes,

it’s in the eyes.