Start with a television
turned on to the left
with no one watching.

Add to it one Telecaster,
tuned mostly up and untouched,
on a stand to the right.

In between, place a man
whose friends stay away
for fear of catching

his illness, his strokes,
his mental anguish — what
have you?

What have you, indeed?
The bare bones of a problem
simply defined: simply put,

keep a short leash on memory.
Long time past is not worth visiting;
close your eyes against it.

Keep to a short time before nightfall instead,
keep no time to think of a different answer.
Keep the rest of time in the world

to pick the guitar up, tune it up,
stumble through playing a wee bit.
Nothing else will do.

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

Julie, or Kate. Maybe
Joan — I can’t remember
the name of the singer
on the radio right now.

Once I could. I had a memory
close to God’s, if I can
speak of that — I promise you,
I whisper it in my head

so God won’t hear me if
in fact God is listening, which
I sincerely doubt based on
God’s inattention to various

disasters here in the moment:
marchers in our streets
confronted by sneering cretins;
the climate slowly bubbling;

inequality and poverty
endemic — who am I kidding?
God isn’t made for that. God
eats our offerings and

burps them up without a care
for the world. Julie
or Kate or even Joan don’t
matter to him, or to me.

What matters to me now
is the simple fact of living —
hanging on to moments
of peace, holding on to grace.

I listen to the radio hoping
for one moment where
it does not matter one bit
who I hear or if I can choose

one singer or another
to pin the voice on. Julie
or Kate or Joan can go forth
singing forever and a day

will come for them as it comes
for me and no one will care
amid the tumult of war
and famine, in the middle

of peace and freedom
and lack of want. No one
will care for more than
their own voice and the hope

that it will be heard.
As for me and God,
we will have their backs.
We will have them at heart

as we listen to them
and if God forgets,
I will not until I go.
Julie, Kate, Joan — I swear

I remain with you,
you have me, you have got me,
I’m your man, your biggest fan,
I will stay true, even when

you stop singing.

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

On the radio
intertwined guitars
go weaving; me,
half-asleep,
thinking of how I
could play this.

Deciding I can’t
and, swallowing
my overanxious pride,
tumble into becoming
fully unconscious
until morning.

I’m not much better
when I get up; stagger out
and put the radio on.
Sit down, drink coffee;
pretty much my whole morning
till I get up and try
to play — after I write,
of course. Always
after I write. Trying to recall
what had come last night
and failing…again.

Deciding I can’t, yet
again. I will try
at some point but again,
yet again,
not today.

Writing is
all I have left. It’s not
wonderful, barely
worth noticing; still,
I write and I write.

Deciding I’m
not worthy to hold a pen.
I toss it down.
Not worthy, so I will seize
my guitar; not worthy
of that either; I set it
back on its rack and then
I sit and sit some more

as the earth moves with me,
moves under me; as the sky
moves above me, with me;
as I move with them, through them
with a guitar unplayed, a pen
unused on the scarred table;
each of us unused
as we will be for the rest
of our days.

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

Lonesome harmonica
sits noiselessly on my desk.

Lonely guitar unplucked
next to it on a mute stand,

rubber bands knotted together
to keep it upright and silent in place

as I am silent for once
thinking of unborn children.

This entire house will remain silent
until I do something to relieve it.

I feel like
I ought to do something

but can’t think of a thing to do
that doesn’t involve

music and kids’ laughter. Their innocence,
so I’m told, will shine through;

well, I wasn’t that innocent, ever.
My ghost children will never be either —

no one is, I think. I sit here guilty as hell
of something,

with silent musical instruments
muted up,

waiting to be played;
they will wait a long time.

A child’s laughter will forever
be missing. Harp and guitar

will forever do nothing without
me to fill this void.

As for me, sitting here in the quiet,
I’m missing too.

No one’s looking for me.
No one is listening.

Any stories I could tell
have already been aired,

any songs I could play
don’t make a sound worth hearing,

and any rate kids would not understand
a single word of each.

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

It is wee bit before sunrise;
song comes forth sounding
like Everly Brothers; song
of wistful heart; cliche song
ending, switching to jaunty
ragtime beat; Doc Watson,
blind voice, song as joyful
as icon in Russian church —
no joy superficially but behind
screen of sadness — song ending;
DJ speaking of 1964, switching
over to modern noise,
bluegrass fused to rock drums; then
recording of station ID
so it will be known by few listening
at this hour, those who likely know
anyway; this ends, turns over to
someone called Nathaniel Rateliff;
music never ending at sunrise,
continuing a long night
without sleep;

listen, pal:

this boy is tired,
borderline remorseful over
being awake or at least conscious
for this concert;
eclectic, illusory
gladness over
white noise of dread;

this is sameness, penance
for rising with sunlight’s arrival,
doctor’s appointment coming;
music secondary to wondering
what happens next.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T