Letter found
under the newspaper
lining the bottom
of an old box: illegible 
mostly, faded from age
and attic heat;

ink gone brown
and paper gone crisp and 
the only clear writing
above the body of the letter 
seems to say it was written 
on a blurred date long ago
by someone whose name is unclear
from a place called “Moroccotown,”
state not specified. 

I go hunting for information
and learn there’s one town
in Indiana that’s called
“Morocco” but no listing for one
called “Moroccotown” so perhaps
the ink is lying and it says
something else, or else this town
once existed and has vanished
as have the writer
and the equally unknown reader
as well as any explanation 

for why a letter was mailed
from mystery Moroccotown
or why the recipient hid it deep
in the yellow flakes of the lining
of a box in an attic as hot
as a desert. It must have been
important once. It must have
meant something strong enough
to make it worth holding.
I put the letter in an envelope
where it will sit in a drawer,
vibrating, until it either 
crumbles, explodes,
or turns to sand. 

breaking
my accustomed morning cup
into pieces
so I may never drink from it again

not by accident 
but with serious intentions
and careful attention
to avoid jettisoning

sharp ceramic flakes
so small they may be 
unseen until they enter
a finger or toe and draw blood

therefore wrapping it all in a cloth
in which I will safely discard it
after I’ve taken the hammer
to the beloved cup

what shall I drink from now
that I have done this
in an effort to make
my life over

or should this be
just the first step
should I release myself 
from all need for a morning cup

and when will I grow tired
of taking so much care in starting over
and instead let the shards
land where they will

should I just
get used to the blood
and the pain
of stepping on

the small knives and regrets
left behind in the wake
of my abandon and
my new morning chant

let me be
as I am
let me be
as I am 

let me be
this far gone
let me go
where I must

let me leave
only blood behind
to let you know
I was here

those who proclaim 
that all bodies are beautiful
all the time
have seemingly never assessed
the truth of their own grossness
upon waking
or the gross processes which follow
rising grossly from a gross bed
and entering into gross mornings
upon gross mornings through rituals
designed to make themselves 
slightly less gross for a time

I am tired
of proclamations
and affirmations

much of the time I walk grossly 
through the world aspiring
to a level of balance between
my reality based grossness
and my ideals for where I would
like to be and woe unto those
who will tell me I am never grosser
than when I do not know reality
for what it is

the number of days
and in fact moments
when I feel less than gross 
is a small one but
the number of days
and in fact moments 
when I accept the nature 
of the body in which
I carry myself is immense

if that’s what you mean
by saying we are all beautiful
at all times then I beg you

say it plain that we are often
gross and disgusting and to say
otherwise is to paint over
rot with bright colors
from a discount store bargain bin

they won’t stick for long and
when they peel it will be grosser 
than if it had never happened

you do not need to be 
anything other
than what you are
and you are a spectrum
a continuum 
a span which is not always lovely
but is always real
and thus often gross

the real is the enemy 
of the lie
language counts as a weapon
in that war 

to say that all is beautiful is 
an electromagnetic pulse
knocking out the power
of embracing the gross
and moving ever forward
toward tomorrow morning

suppose the junkie on the median
with the cardboard sign and the leg tattoos
screams out that they love you
as you drive away from the brief encounter
where you passed a dollar into their hand
and made a left hand turn toward the highway — 

is there any need to shout it back at them
if you do not indeed love them as well? did your
act of small charity represent love well enough?
does their addiction disqualify them
from hearing it spoken explicitly? how long
should their cracked voice echo inside you
after you are far away?  

If I had died
younger — say, in 1977
as I once thought I would;

on the 19th of December
as I once was sure I would;
at 7:19 in the evening

as a hard, solid dream at 13
convinced me I would,
then all this that has happened since

would not have been, at least not for me,
and maybe not for anyone else
either. Maybe if that premonition 

which haunted my teenage years
had been correct and unassailable in its truth
(even if no one had ever known of it

but me) then perhaps this deadly current world
and all its mad brinksmanship would have been
avoided — not because I was or am

central to the universe’s design
but because I hope this is even now
another figment of a fevered imagination,

and when I pass no one else but me
will ever have in fact been hurt
by the horror I see around me now.

I do not recall waking up on the morning
of December 20, 1977. I would have been
freshly home from college and likely in shock

that I’d woken up at all. I’ve barely slept
since then: that much I do know. Every day
has been a sad mix of betrayal and resignation

to daylight. I distrust it, I should not 
be seeing it; perhaps I am not seeing it
but am only looking back on it

from the next life, the next world, 
or maybe I’m still having
the same damn death dream

and in the true world of the living
this is fine. Somewhere there
on a perfect winter day

they’ve mourned me enough
to have moved on by now,
to barely recall me and thus,

everything is fine.

Somewhere
nearby — mockingbird!
Police siren hedge clipper
low whistle meow bird 
though unseen well heard 

Even black cat and calico
pick their heads up
out of sleep
and seek the source
Even the starlings 
shut up and sit still

Feeders are full
but no one’s eating until
we all figure it out 

Police siren low coo
car door closing and 
meow again then

no more

The starlings start
their bickering again
and the cats
go back to sleep

Edging closer
to a border
than you thought
you would or could.

Fear inside
rising slowly
about how it 
might be necessary
or even exciting
to make this move
you swore you could
never make.

That is no
promised land
on the other side,
and you know it.

Yet you are standing
closer to the border
than you ever have
looking toward
the grey-green of
those far hills.

You imagine one day
having gained
enough comfort
to go trekking
carefree through those hills
with a basket
of good cheese
and bread, perhaps 
wine for the end
of the journey.

You take a step
not over,
but toward. 

Daylight tinged
with dusk sliding 
up and over 

Accustomed birds
beginning 
to disappear

All day
I have fought a roiling and 
a burning within

The end of the sun
is a relief
Night will be a balm

unless this continues
through dreams
and emerges at dawn

to drag me into
another day
of wrath and confusion

Although the calls
of my neighbor birds
would normally calm me

I will not lay the burden
of easing me through this
upon them

Instead I will sleep until
the pain has stopped
or at least until

I can stop it myself 
day or night
unassisted and in silence

Unseen bird thumping
against glass
then flying away
unhurt 

Bursts of clacking
as downy woodpeckers
hammer their beaks
into bricks of seed

Fanfare of chirps
and wings flapping as
next door’s hunting cat
charges and fails as always

then inevitably
the sound of them
all returning together
immediately 

and that damned squirrel
at it again — probing
the cages to see what
could be gained there

They say you should
take your feeders down
in summer or never put them
up at all but truly

I would be lost and crazy
if I did as this is how
I make myself want 
to look outside

at something other than
the red black backs
of my eyelids shut tightly
against anything but myself

My legacy
will not be one
of honor and fame,
I know. No 
easy rest for me
in the knowledge of
a lasting memory
what I’ve done.
I suspect instead
that there will be
for only a few years
a flurry of 
brief, vague 
comments upon
who I was
and what I
left behind
and then
the forgetting
will begin
and that
will be all,
will have to be 
satisfactory. 
I’m practicing
for it now: blending
into the curtains
drawn across
the windows
that look out upon
the bright bright
world. Soon enough
I’ll be pulled back
so people can see
how it shines.
Maybe a few 
will learn to love
what I left behind:
tales of how
to take shelter
in the dark
that inevitably follows
the dimming
of the day.