Mom asks,
who is Beyonce?
She’s a singer,
I tell her.
Would I
know anything she sings?
No, I don’t
think so.
Oh, okay then.
Goes back to dozing
in front of the game show
where she heard the name.
Beyonce was the answer to
a question. That was
all she needed to know.
All is well. Enough.
Do you think you will ever
know when to say Enough?
To look out the window
and say Enough. To see the news
and say Enough.
To close your eyes
and say Oh, okay then,
plunging deeper into Enough.
In some part of The Land
there’s been more rain
than they can handle
but not here, where we long
for rain and pray for The Land
to come back into Balance.
What if this is Balance?
Some say it is and the Land
is behaving as it should.
We are the Fulcrum
upon which the Balance
has come to rest.
Some say, it is what it is. Some say
those words are themselves
the blunt tip upon which
the Fulcrum has come to rest
and the reason the Balance
wobbles like a weak priest
in a confessional, shaking
as he listens to sins in a voice
he knows so well.Too well.
All I know is that the rain
is elsewhere, not here. We
do what we can to maintain
Balance. We shiver or we burn
and tell each other to take hold
and hang on. It is what it is:
the Balance is not in our favor
and unlikely to come to us now.
That’s the nature of Balance:
it settles, eventually, come rain
or come shine. There’s a reason
some say it that way: it is
what it is,
come rain or come shine,
easy come, easy go.
It’s been years now since
we’ve seen rain. Listen to
The Land. Bring us now the Flood.
That must be my body
in that mirror, that nest
of misdirections;
here, what looks like
a too-short
bindle of twigs;
there, something more like
a poorly daubed
mud cluster.
Hard to apprehend the whole
when such fragments
compel so strongly.
There in the mirror
what I think is a reflection of me
stares back piecemeal.
Then again? This is not my mirror.
My own’s covered up
behind my bedroom door.
I don’t look at it much.
I only see mirrors in
the homes of others.
If a mirror’s accuracy
is changed
by its provenance,
how am I changed
in relation to wherever
I happen to find myself?
At the crossroads now, moonlight
drenched, soaked in all its storied
charm and hazard.
I’ve stopped here
on my way West
after long years in the East.
I never much thought about getting
proper directions before I left;
simply got up and headed toward
what I thought
would feel like home.
Kept sunset ahead to guide me.
Ending up here seems now
preordained if you can say that
while observing that preacher-ish figure
approaching from the south.
Long way off. Moving faster
than seems possible. Can’t tell
if I know them, if it’s someone
I’ve met in passing, on more
intimate turf, or never before.
The air smells like I’ve been here
before this. As if
someone like myself
had been here decades
or more ago. Old music slips
toward me up the wind:
a song of my fathers, a song
of lost brothers, a song of ruptured love
and sold out family.
How long until midnight?
It’s a mystery. How long have we both
been walking? It’s a mystery too.
I just know I’ve been trying
to put words
to those songs for too long
and to find them here means
I’ve somehow
come home again,
and as I’ve always known home
is not, has never been safe.
But I’m here.
It’s nearly time
to shake hands
with that preacher
and find out what will be
beyond tomorrow’s sunset
when I get there.
At three AM
“Diamonds and Rust”
won’t leave my head
or hands. Sitting in
the far room
on a desk chair
that makes more noise
than an unplugged
Telecaster can.
Fingerpicking
my way through,
not singing as it’s
three AM and
the dog won’t bother
to come in if I
can keep it down.
My love in the next room
won’t be disturbed if I
can keep it down.
I try not to move
so the chair won’t squeak.
I try not to sing
so my eyes don’t leak.
I concentrate
so I do not fail
the near silent notes;
so my hands don’t feel
the pain they do
when I am simply
walking around
through daylight chores:
stiffened; full of rust and
broken nerves while
the sharp diamonds
of my past
are carving me within.
The seagull
on the parking lot fence:
laughing, angry, or neither;
commenting on your face,
stature, speech; or worse
on none of that; on
something unseen in the air
around you. As if
air around you is the problem;
as if you are the air’s problem.
You feel you’re suddenly
an exposed shipwreck:
treated as a mockery
not a tragedy;
opened to scrutiny
by the scouring
of a storm; the seagull,
laughing over
your once waterlogged bones,
knows more than you want to
acknowledge, is
threatening to tell,
is perching on you,
refusing to leave.
At the top of the stairs
lived all my lasting errors.
I used to live there too.
Then I fled down here
and left (or thought I left)
those villains behind.
I looked up for what I thought
would be the final time
and the stairs flattened
and all my lasting errors
slid down and heaped up
around my ankles. I could not move.
Once again, there was
nowhere left to go.
Appeal
to our
better natures.
Soften public
opinion toward
your parents.
Annoy and afflict others
with memories of how you lived
and died.
Suggest a better world
for those who remain,
eventually. At least
remain
a lesson
on the way there.
There’s rotting
to be done. There are
cheap shots to be taken
at your expense.
Absorb and deflect them
and in fact cease caring
for what strikes you,
as you were unable to do
in your last live minutes.
Lie there until
someone grows a conscience
and replants it elsewhere.
Feed it
on your name
and last words.
Water it
with unruly streams
of your blood and tears.
Fade from it, or do not.
Not for everyone,
not for long years.
When his life had finally failed
to the full extent possible,
he screamed and wept out loud and
his failure became as unto
a drum solo that broke
the air in the room
so that all who were present
sat there flushed with the heat
of his shame and the beat
of this last collapse.
You really were wailing there,
man, said one to him after.
That was hot. He sat back down,
praying agony would grant him enough
for an encore.
Decent heart,
improper body.
Old story. In fact
old man story:
spirit too sour,
flesh and blood too sweet.
Thanks tonight to decent bed,
to rest and random touch.
Thanks to light through
blinds laying bars across
bedspread and bodies. Almost
how it was when I was confident;
cozied up almost to arrogance;
almost tight with it,
almost no light between.
Now there’s nothing to keep
us together. Nothing in which
to glory. Nothing to shout out.
Some memories
fall on you
then stick hard,
burn like napalm.
Others slide down,
make happy gas puddles
where you splash
until the napalm
you already wear
ignites them.
You in flames forever,
no matter
the pool or river where
you fling yourself,
seems to be what’s been
allotted for you.
You in flames no matter which
Bible verse, contrived or authentic,
you turn to
for comfort.
You tell yourself
others will see better
in your agony light,
sustain themselves over your fire,
stay warm in darkness.
You tell yourself it’s enough
to be this and dry out within
until all you are is fuel.
Of course you are cancelling
every appointment we’ve made
and now you are not speaking
in any way we like to call civil
or polite.
Meanwhile I’m
flat on my back
in a supermarket
where I’ve fallen in front of
the prepared foods and salads.
I don’t know how it happened.
No one’s trying to help me, except
for the worker who’s asking
if I need a cart for what scattered
from my arms when I hit the floor.
Of course there’s no point now
to thinking about missed jobs
and phone calls. The ceiling’s
interesting. A bird’s flying from girder
to girder. He seems certain
of landing where he intends
to land. I’m afraid to rise as
I don’t know if on my feet will ever be
the right place for me to land
ever again. Of course no one’s
calling to offer me a place to land
that’s any safer than on my feet
so I can fall again. I might just stay here
where having fallen is safer than waiting to fall.
I had my share of it, they say,
and now they don’t want me here.
One share, two shares, five shares, more:
who do you think you are, they say?
What do you think you are owed?
Nothing, I say. All I want
is my name and a scrap of corner light
from my old bedroom. Some place
to call ancestral. I’m not
to the manor born but once
I squalled and squealed here
and I believe that still echoes.
I don’t believe this is about
what I’m owed or even about
who owes, you see.
This is about honoring the part of me
that should have staked my claim
when I still trusted you.
I didn’t think I’d even
need to ask and now we are here,
or rather I’m here and you
are there with your stake and claim,
your chains and surveyor’s transit.
Mine, you say, as you set up
on my stone. I don’t even want
that, I say. It’s dark here
and a little light
from the family window
would be enough for me.
Nothing more tangible.
Nothing that you need
to surrender.
The darkness in this home
is the depth of a hall closet
where things are hanging
that haven’t seen light in decades.
Dust and mildew, but also
whatever was left there
after the last family wedding
anyone remembers attending:
the brutal one. The terminal one.
The dark ceremony with all
the strength of its memory
breaking though and overwhelming
the shields of thin plastic
draped over the shoulders
and lapels. It’s been decades
but there’s no room for anything else,
in the house, even if the door to the closet
closes again and locks hard.
The guy
doesn’t bother
taking the cover
off his unregistered car
to move it ten feet
down the curb. Didn’t hit
the neighbors’ car which is
kind of a pity as that might have been
the last straw,
last act in the ghost play —
he’s been a squatting ghost
for far more than a year now;
lots of banging, lots of
dragging heavy things,
lots of late night
visitors, lots of doors
left open, not just unlocked,
wide open at all hours.
Was supposed
to have moved at the end of last month
but something
went wrong with that
as has been the case
for the last three years between
the ‘vid
and the eviction moratorium.
Between compassion for him and
agony for the rest of us. No,
I don’t know or particularly care about
where he’s supposed to go.
Fatigue has put a cover over
my compassion. No,
I surely don’t know
where we were supposed to go
or what we’re supposed to have done.
Anger has torn the cover
from my tolerance.
All I know is the rest of us
are dog’s-old-bone tired
of living with the ghost
and if we don’t get some rest soon
someone’s going to
rip that cover off his car
and have it towed
straight to Hell while he
chases it all the way down.
Dark Matter
Dark Matter 