I’m no
walk-in closet.
More of a wardrobe.
Limited space
for stuff inside —
keep to a regimen
of work, sleep,
occasional fun
and don’t hold on
to many souvenirs
unless they fit into
the small drawers
I occasionally weed
to make slots for new
items.  If I want larger
themes, I go outside
and feel no need to own
what I see. I’m not overfull
with passing fancy this way,
a thing I learned
through experience —
my walls
can’t take
too much weight
and a packed drawer
doesn’t open easily
when you’re in need
of what’s inside. 

dig through bones left behind
when you’ve stripped away
fat
and bulk, skin
and shape

re-assemble them as you wish —
don’t feel obliged
to retain original shape —
trust that those who may see it
will see how it was and still
understand what you’ve made of it

for the sake of the overburdened
leave off the prattle
about beauty, soul, heart, crystalline visions,
exhortations to action,
overripe distinctions between
your varied sexual arousals
and the stink of your psyche’s
rotten moments

make the bones
do those things
instead
through the suggestions
they offer
of what you intended to say

(it should be noted
this advice has nothing to do with
ars poetica

it is the nature of metaphor
to make the thing it does not describe
more obvious through the subterfuge

you should know that)

for the sake of whatever you do
and believe in

stop making your profession
of those things
so complicated

make the bones the pure thing

we all carry enough
of our own remains with us
to dress them ourselves
from our own stores

radio
candle
mirror and movies
on the rack

witnesses
that may not know
how to testify

but
they see me
here

thinking of nothing

judging
the placement
of my
possessions

what must they think of me
crying poverty of experience
and boredom

while a hawk
hunts from the tree
just outside the window
raccoons are sleeping under the porch
and (the story goes)
no human on the planet
is less than six feet
from a spider

they cry

at least
turn us on
light me up
or look within

if you can’t be bothered
to step outside

In the city,
no one speaks of the nude gray boughs
of the street trees
or the frantic pre-snow scrambling
of the squirrels
or the rolling trips of the dead leaves
down the sidewalks
or the wind sticking its fingers
in our eyes

except as metaphor

for the lonely strands of our lives
not intersecting
except in random glances
or tossed off commentaries
on the threatening weather

we forget
we are animals
preparing to hunker down
in want and need
during the season

we do not want to consider
that urban
is another word for hive
or that urbane
is another way of saying
we lie when we are outdoors
and pretend we’re not
susceptible
to being
cold

I never claimed to be a pacifist

believe there’s a time for a fist
and a time for an open hand

although it’s a belief
I’ve practiced mostly in theory

since I got big enough
and frowny enough
for people to believe I might
go off
for no discernible reason

truth is
there was a time
that was more true
than it is now

hints of that history
have contributed
to many years of relative calm

so I don’t think
that’s a bad thing
when I consider
how it’s served me

how far away people stand
from me

how little I pretend to care

Solitude
is a word at once too long
and too short to describe
today:

too long
for the simplicity of
sitting and doing little
except existing;

too short
for the complexity of
sitting and doing little
except being.  Being:

the bird on the sill
at once aware and calm
ready to act or not
as needed;

being, the oneness
with the atmosphere
and the climate of
immediacy.

A man, alone,
demanding his manhood
be still and deny the need
for busyness.  Looks the same

as catatonia, perhaps
is the same in some
fashion — the totality
turning inward to face

the outside world, its wind,
its temperature and the noise
of dailiness.  All of it
a part of the man

solitary and contained,
proof against the stream
of things to hold gaze
upon the moment: the stream

stilled, the leaf holding fast
to the surface tension of the water,
the rocks and turbulence below
stopped in their path.

All that happening, and the only word
useful is at once inadequate and overactive
in the mouth — better, then,
to stay nothing and sit.

At eleven PM
when the news starts,
go into the yard and strip down.

The floodlights will catch you
and the locals will come to their windows,
staring and pointing.

You’ll be naked, your scars will be showing,
but no one will be able to say
you’re not in your own skin.

In the glare, you’ll find yourself growing
like a nautilus, each new curve saluting
the previous curve, and you’ll glide away

into the current.  At last — no longer
contained in a shell you never wanted,
now carrying a sculpture around you that fits.

A new knife
needs a better edge
than the one it’s sold with,
said the guy behind the counter
who echoes my father’s words
and everything else my scars
have led me to believe.

It’s a beauty, this piece,
with an assisted opening feature:
a little pressure on the thumbstud
and the black blade snaps into place
quick as my intent.

But it’s not ready, so

I pull
the diamond stone
from the drawer
and begin to stroke
the blade against it
testing it on my skin
until it lifts the hair
and leaves a bare patch behind.
It could open skin now,

so I put it aside
and think about
how I’ll put it
into my pocket
the next time I go out among

my friends and fellow townspeople,
my dearest connections,
my family.

All around me the shiny cars,
the perfect finishes,
the factory edges,
the belief in happy endings,
the misplaced hope for things to work
the way they’re supposed to
right out of the box.

I know better.

frog.
status.
lingua franca.
redoubt.

build the bridge between them
or leap across?

flora.
wrench.
mixed results.

thick answers form
around the library tables.

sunspot.
ignored signs.
curbstone.
face.
jawbreaker.

witness the decided
and determined attempt
to capture the flag
and own a meaning
never intended.  no design
worth mention except as it is
created; literature as a roll of dice —

vinyl.
commitment.
trash box.
sticky bones.

on the way home, realization:

burning.
burning.

repetition is as random as it gets
anywhere.  no reason for discrete
sounds, as any will do:

finale and symphony,
sycophant, blind-eyed,
lugging, baggage,
passage and lockdown,
screwheart, fingerling.

we sleep on the wet,
pretending memory
of a dry crossing.

in a closet
there is a dog
and a light

the dog can’t turn on the light
and he’s howling

closed the door on himself
with his antics

and his better senses
aren’t helping right now

that’s a dog for you
and it’s why we love them

with their wet noses
full of scent
and their dependent eyes
full only with us