It’s one of the fragile
hours.  If I look
at the clock, I’ll see it
shiver and splinter.  Any chance
of going to bed early will be
gone, and I’ll know that
at once and begin to pine
for the lost opportunity.

I’ll avoid that and keep the evening
intact.  No use destroying
a sacred object with attention
to the restraints we keep on it.
I will stay here, in the envelope
of the moment, here in the poem.

You will say I should not speak
of the poem, that to write of it
is to cheapen the art.  You may as well
ask the priest to never speak
of his office, how the presence of his God
is entirely revealed
in his movements
and in the words she speaks.

We do this for a purpose:
the writing, the chanting
are a shield against the shattering force
of the quotidian wave.  Shall I never
be allowed to say that this is how I stop
the day, that this is how
transient things are made permanent?
It’s a blasphemy I won’t abide: I proclaim
that I live to stay here in the poem and deny the clock
that crushes the moment beyond remembering,
and that the bed that called me earlier tonight
is still there, still calling, will be heeded
at some point, but first
the rituals that make the present safe
must be observed.

The art
of saying
the right thing:

hanging motionless
in speech-time,
conscious
of being
letter perfect.

A still
life of a breath
unit.

Enough?
That’s the wrong word —

should have stopped earlier,

as of course
it is.

There are men
I admire, men
I’d never want to be,
who live only in movies.

They swing hard and
shoot straight,
breathe easily
afterward.

I know
there’s nothing real
about such ruthless
competence

at movement
and violent
problem solving.
This is why I can stare

and gasp
at the reddening ease
of their lives,
their stone confident faces

and their swift clean up,
the knives stroked against
their thighs before they are folded
and put away for next time.

I am in thrall to this myth
of success at all costs
that leaves no trace upon
the successful.  The heroes

enter my life for a time
and leave me gasping
at such a possibility, even as I struggle
to get myself off the couch

and do something, anything
that might come to fruition
in a small way in my small life.
Give me one moment from your disdain

to love these killers,
to love the efficiency
of their elimination of obstacles
as I cannot seem to do it for myself.

It’s the only satisfaction I can find
in the steady drip of a faded life.
It’s a beauty, a terrible attractiveness
I abhor, but I cannot look away.

Want, want.

It’s repeated in every country
in full throat or just
buzzed through a close mouth.

Want, want — explosive
as a virgin who’s letting go,
a snake on a burning tree,
a trapped bird in the terminal, a badger
before the dogs and guns, want, want;
man living in the ruins for days
under slab and dirt and stench,
want, want; baby in a pool
sinking and closing down, want,
want. 

Giving up not in the cards
for anyone, none of us
immediately heeding a call to surrender
to the denial of want, want;
wanting is the principal thing,
longing for the ongoing
recreation of first burst
of air into waiting lungs
upon emergence into light and air;
the idea of need
only present in the awareness
of a future where it’s obvious
that want will not be satisfied
again. 

Want, want;
demand it and if it does not happen,
it is not for lack of desire
for we are always wanting
to be,
to breathe, to love
and live, yearning
as if life
were measurable,
tangible,
something we could hold
close
forever.

There’s a point
in the progress of crisis
where one becomes water
and falls out of one’s accustomed vessel
onto the floor.  One loses one’s shape
and spreads thin, covers
everything.  Soaking through
and darkening the fabric, one
becomes transformative — recreating
the surface appearance.  One will eventually
evaporate, of course: the cursed truth
of this process.  But, there’s a sliver lining
to the cloud one will rise and form
at that point: one will fall again
as water, fill the vessel and return to
original state.  One is never at a loss
for identity.  One changes
but is unchanged, emotionally
things may seem different but one
is still the same essence.  One should take care
to be comfortable with such changes, understanding
that stability is constant, no matter the form
one takes.

The injunction
is simple:
go hard, or don’t go.

The last thing you want
is to be known for
a soft first step
on the diamond
road. 

Your horse
is diamond, your saddle
is diamond, your spurs
diamond novas digging
into the diamond hide
of your ride.

Strike a hard spark
and set a fire when you ride out.
Go hard, or don’t go —

it doesn’t matter to those waiting
at the end of the road,
someone will come.  Someone always
comes.  If it’s not you,

who will care?  No one but you
cares who brings the fire.

Surrendered
to the ashtray,
the bottle,
the writing desk,
and fell down.

Dollar bill,
dollar bill,
claiming me
off the floor,
picked me up.

Made a pact
with the dollar bill —
let me go and I’ll
let you in a bit.
Give you a little finger,

don’t need that to write,
smoke, drink. 
But it’s a hungry
slip of paper.
It’s a damn hyena.

It’s laughing
all night now,
sticks in my dream head.
I see it wanting me,
I want it to eat more:

take me, dollar bill.
Let’s get stuffed — me
in your craw, you full of me.
I’m open to being consumed.
I’m a meal ready to eat.

At least I’ll have had
the time before.  Had my moment.
Had lean times, they weren’t much
good to me.  Was rich in art once.
That’s fine. You can have me now.

Unremoved snow
on his sidewalk.  His Camry
buried to the fenders
but slowly melting free.

Where’s the old man?
He hasn’t made
his daily grocery run
for at least four days.

And surprised, too,
that he didn’t get out to vote.
Maybe
he got a ride?

We look across at his house
and the drawn blinds.
Shrug, figure he’s OK,
maybe waiting for spring.

(for D.G.)

“There is no object so foul but that intense light cannot make it beautiful.”  — Emerson

When we were young we stood too close to each other
to let light in. We huddled with our eyes closed.  Saw
everything by touch. Knew ourselves and each other
only by the feathers of our breath.  Called
the dark our day and were done with it,
called in pain, named ourselves frustrated,
could smell nothing but our wasted potential.

The details we did not see then
stand up for themselves now, declaring
that we were sculptures.  We aren’t the shadows
we accepted then, never were; we were full
and solid, palpable through our eyes if we had tried.

We could not have known this then,
but now, only now, now that distance
and day allow us to pore over our fragile
and mobile pasts, can we scan the slippery
and live velvet of what we were.  Not foul,
not terrible; back then we were so lovely
as to stop time itself.  It stops now
for us, now that we can see.  We can say it:
we were enough, were beautiful,
and we would have known that then
if we could have stepped away from ourselves
long enough to let the light come in.

I wish my arms
were donkeys
pulling carts
full of children laughing
or produce to the country market
in a land without pickup trucks.

I wish my legs
were lungfish
making do in hard times
with air or water
as needed, or that they could crust up
and wait.

Wish my cheeks
were stuffed with mussels
because my mouth was a tide pool.

Smell that, the wet musk
of inhuman kindness?
I long to smell like that —

unconscious and fun, doing
the simple thing,  abundant
with no plan.

My
overworked brain screams
protest.  “Don’t deny me,
you asshole!”  Fuck off, brain.

I’m in love with not thinking tonight —
I fall asleep,

wishing I were a sloth,
home to algae and slow calm,
dreaming of a celery beard,
breathing over
a morel tongue.

I keep thinking
it’s going to stop
suddenly,
in pretty much the way I used to hope
the preacher
would stop pounding the pulpit
with his fist to strike a pose
with a long finger pointing
out at the congregation
at the breakthrough moment
where the souls are saved
and brimstone gives way
to ambrosia.

Sermon after poisonous sermon —

unworthy,
useless,
failed son,
fallen —

I always hoped
for a phrase
or a line to redeem me
before them all.

But the service ground on
with me unremarked
for direct salvation.
Always the implications, nuances
to chide me on, drive me deep
into the bench, sinking down.

If I was still
a praying man,
I’d be on my knees right now
for silence.  On my knees,
hoping to awaken
in the arms of peace.
I gave that up a while ago —

instead I think about stealing the Bible
and tossing it into a bonfire.
Nothing to hear there,
nothing worth trying,
not a second time.