I take a piece of butter bread
and spread it thick with butter again
and also honey — not thick with it
but thick enough — and turn it loose
upon my tongue where it stops
me for a minute, less really
unless I close my eyes after a bite
and think: is this enough?
Is this enough to stop hunger,
end war, give me peace and allow me
to harmonize with silence for one moment
after, until I take another bite?

It isn’t. So I take
another bite, feel honey
in my beard-hairs, chew slowly
around butter — a big chunk
if you can call it a chunk when
it is so soft and when bread
melds swiftly to it until
they are one —

and I close
my eyes, alone again
for a second time this morning
when it is morning here,
night elsewhere, cusp of a day
when anything could happen,
even a piece of butter bread
coming together with honey
and extraneous butter until
you close your eyes one final time.

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

Stars, all of them it seems,
laid out in a perfect grid
across the night sky. It’s not
supposed to be thus. Supposed instead
to fling itself in a chaos of disorderly
mythological meaning, the stories
not resolving, just — there. Instead
it seems that a mechanic has organized it
with pre-greasy hands, the way he preferred
it to be– easy to apprehend, to comprehend.
I know they are just beyond my memory
and I strain and rub hard at my failing eyes
to try and see. Just now, one flickered.
I almost cried for the flaw.
I do not care if it was real. I care
for the mistake, imaginary though it may be.
We learn from our mistakes, or so I’ve been told.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Quincy Jones died; Bob Dylan
lives; Phil Lesh died, Bruce Springsteen
lives; my father is gone, my mother
almost gone, and me, almost
almost almost gone…or so I almost
almost believe. I am almost
certain of it and almost don’t fear
the uncertainty — what will it be like
on the other side, if there is one?
Will I get to speak to the famous
and will I be part of the welcoming crew
for the ones yet to come? Or will I stop
caring as much about them; will I fail to
even notice them as I stare into…what?
I don’t know and that makes the difference
between peace and struggle. Famous
and infamous, ordinary
and extraordinary alike will stare
into the bark of old trees hoping for
insight. Or perhaps not. Perhaps
the old trees won’t be visible,
perhaps I won’t see anything
and neither will the famous. Quincy
and I won’t know each other. We will be
young and luminous and anonymous
in the void.

`~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward.
T

A long way to the highest step.
A long way to the lowest step.
It’s a long climb or a long fall.
The tumble would feel like a polka song
all the way down, and the climb
would become slower and slower
and hurt more and mostly would become
pain, discomfort, a sense of wrong
choice or no choice if you didn’t
want to die. And you don’t
want to die — not yet, not without
digesting all the life you could.
So you sit on the stairway and sigh
that there’s no elevator, no escalator —
not even a moving sidewalk, damn
the creator…you watch for birds,
hoping for a song; you long for coffee,
hoping for a cup; you hope for anything
that would make the decision to sit still
seem more rational. It doesn’t come.
It will never seem rational and it seems
fanciful to the extreme, in fact.
But it’s all you’ve got; dreamer,
fanciful man, irrational man,
elliptical thinker of peripheral thought;
you sit on the midway step, gently blow your
honking nose, weep, and hungrily wait for a sign.

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

Rumbling, riffing guitar, extra
drums of trash contrivance
that sound dead — no reverberation
from the kick — the bass of it
seems nonexistent until a moment
of dead air, and then another song
begins; a new song with a stronger bass
and a dobro but it’s short — clear voice,
firm hands on the axe — was it recorded
separately, all together? Call letters follow.
Then, another song…

I turn the radio off. I love
silence when I can’t sing. I long
for it — let the music sink into me
the way the sorrow does, the way
the joy does…

the way it all does, every little scrap.

It is getting to be light outside,
the sun coming up over the street
from between three-deckers; dimmed
until a scrap pierces through and
the day promises more light…

that and the silence after the radio
goes off are enough to make this
a day, inexorable and constant.

Turn the radio back on.
You need something to do.
It will happen again.
You will need something to do
and silence tells you so little
about that.

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

Another morning.
Last cup of coffee.

Open the blinds.
It’s a bit chilly.

You found everything
you sought before sunrise.

Staring at the wall,
thinking about the guitar.

How did your life
get this simple?

A beat behind the marvelous
is still worthy of marvel.

You didn’t expect that,
did you?

You might make more coffee.
You might not.

You are in tune with the marvelous,
after all, and it might stop.

Not today,
though.

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

New morning:
cat sleeping nearby
as always.

Ordinary day:
something like bluegrass
on the radio;

something like sweetness
on the radio with it;
all acoustic music

and that is fine.
Legs and heart are strong,
though the mind…

I draw the curtain
over the mind. Ordinary day.
Cat sleeping as always;

head up, eyes closed;
a morning like any morning:
my time.  My only time.

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

I open the line, but I do not know
that I am supposed to say anything.

I open the line and all I can think of
is describing how far I am from where
I thought I would be.

I open the line and think about closing it
at once. The space yawns before me.

I open the line and all I can think of is messages to others
who will not understand how critical it is
that they should respond swiftly.

I open the line. It does not matter.
I am desperate. It does not matter.

I open the line and I am lost
amid the seas that storm the beach
where I choose to stand, as if there was a choice.

I open the line and turn toward those I love.
I look at them, then away when they do not see me.

I close the line and wipe my hands and look away.
I wipe my knees clean and turn
toward a dark morning.

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

Longing to hear
the strain on the hibiscus
blossom, I sit out on the step
and listen hard and long
to the wind through the branches
that still hold the buds.

It’s too late now to hear them
though they still hold tight
to their slender limbs. They appear
as young and green as ever
although they know otherwise.
They know what’s coming. Somehow.

I sit and wait though I know
it’s of no value. Hoping for
a late burst of summer is pointless
now for me, as well as for those buds.
Those stunning buds of white, now and then
pink; it’s past time for all of it.

Past time for summer, heading
toward winter. I sit and wait
as does the hibiscus, its buds
on hold though it looks
like time for a glorious departure,
like the sudden frost that surely comes

is surely only a rumor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Last post for everyone.

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