stop 
playing musical chairs
with people who are told beforehand
when the music will stop so they are
always ahead of you in getting to
a seat. 

stop
playing double dutch
with people who can tie a noose
in the rope and catch you by the neck
in mid-air before you
touch down.

stop 
pretending life 
is no longer grade school. 
it will always be
battleground recess, 
every day. 

stop
thinking that bully and bullied
isn’t the name of the big game
we start playing early
and are made to play until
very late.

you
have choices. pick a side
or walk away. play the role
written for you or 
write another game for yourself
to play. but

whatever
you choose, stop pretending
the streetlights are not yet on
and it is not time to come in
from the dark before it gets too dark
to win.

If I am chosen
or doomed to this

then let me be it
fully

Let me make and sling
the necessary fists

for those who will not raise their own
to strike back at their tormentors

Let me roil the rising water
with my anger

for those committed to calm
when there is truly none to be had

Let me walk ahead 
of those willing to be slain

despite their calls for peace
and let me bring the sword they will not carry

Let me long for a different fate
even as I fulfill the one I’ve been given

Let me go wrongly 
among the righteous as they cannot

Let me die if I must
doing what others cannot or will not

and if I must die that way
let it be said of me

that balance was my only aim
and while I was willing I was not joyous

in the role I was assigned
I longed for an easy life and death

but it was not for me
Nothing of it was for me

Overcome today with the understanding
that if there is a meaning to the universe
I’m merely a period closing one routine
sentence in the owner’s manual,

and if I’d been left out from the beginning
the meaning would still be clear from context.
My absence would mean nothing at all
except to the most nitpicky readers.

I am not absent
but I am minuscule in comparison
to the broad sweep of the text.
It’s a comforting thought. Nothing

depends on me, you say? No more
than on anything else? That’s 
a cold lick of freedom indeed, 
and as I fade into the invisible background

I’m thinking less and less, 
feeling more and more, and 
more or less invigorated by this,
I turn toward the light with a smile.

A truck goes by.
One cat sleeps,
the other runs. 

I do nothing but watch.
I do nothing but tell
stories — some are even
true.

Was there a truck? 
I think so. If not, 
I’ll make it so.
Such power in lying
if this is a lie.
Such resolute power
in sitting and watching
if one can tell a story afterward.

The cat who ran knows this.
The one who sleeps might know this
or might not.

I can choose
the stories to tell
about the cats and turn them
into fodder. One’s sleeping in a box
and maybe isn’t even aware
that I’m here. The other one’s
ears keep twitching at the sound
of my keyboard. Maybe. Maybe
they move at the sound of starlings,
or in fear of the truck returning,

if there was a truck.

Schrodinger failed to account
for the observations
of the cat in the box
regarding the nature
of living and dying. He knew
the discussion was ridiculous.
He chose his story without asking
the cat for its view. The cat was likely
more afraid of trucks on the street
than such a story as his.

It would be nice
to know the truth.
Truth be told, I suspect
it would be best for me
to just pet the cats,
both of them,
while we’re all still here. 

A backhanded prayer,
a promise made in a meadow,
a body twisting,
a whole zoo of animal thoughts,
small-town bravery
in the face of big town
midnight,
a teacher rolling dice that nothing
will go any more wrong,
vacated bodies handled 
gently by lesser superheroes,
no victory to be had, 
no power to which to offer sacrifice,
no reason,
no reason,
no reason.

Say that phrase no one will admit they love.
Say it as if you are proud to say it: I don’t care. 

Say it with your whole body as you turn away from today.
Say it symphonically, as a string quartet might play it:  I don’t care. 

So much to think about when you stare at everything all day long.
So many people you don’t know want to discuss all this. Say it: I don’t care. 

Say it as if it could cure the poisoned air, as if our need to weigh in
has turned such an admission into Magick: I don’t care. 

As if your opinion matters without action, if it matters at all with
or without action. Let your tone of voice be your action. Say it: I don’t care. 

Give it a place beyond this one. Put it out, free yourself.
Once free, you will fly. Fly now. Say it: I don’t care. 

Eat better, sleep better, be more at rest while awake; make love
without overthinking. Stop fretting and say, I don’t care. 

You ask: but how should I push through the blood in the streets?
Dye your legs red and blend in with the surge. Say it: I don’t care. 

On the way home,
north on the highway;
falling sun on my left,
dim sundog in the clouds
to the right. Pillars
between which I roll
until I see the sundog
dead ahead.
The sun itself
has moved farther
to the left now, 

and then they are both
to my left
and the rainbow spot
once on the right has almost
come level now
with the nose corner of 
my left eye.

It’s my trajectory
that moves, not the 
sky. I know this —
but this illusion 
of change being
a destiny being achieved
beyond my own efforts
thrills me,
today at least.
One small joy
on this too often
untrustworthy path.
Today, at least,
I’m at peace,
moving between 
lights toward rest. 

You cross your fingers
and tell yourself that
if you are lucky
you will not be asked 
to open your bags
for inspection. You tote
too much of the forbidden
to be comfortable with that
if it happens. You fear
you’ll betray yourself
with your sweat
and be turned aside
for further investigation, or
be turned away completely,
ruining your last chance to 
get good and get gone. 

Or perhaps you’ll then be taken
to a stage, stripped, and told
to perform rationalizations
and apologies for an audience
who will say nothing as they stare
at the mess you’ve become,
all illnesses and stresses 
having broken through your skin
to manifest upon the body itself.
Once done, you’ll be redressed
and set back on the street
with your offending baggage.

You could tell yourself
you could try again to get by
but the line’s so much longer
than it was when you first arrived
here at this — station? terminal?
You can’t even say. You just came
because it felt like the way out;
after all, that’s what you’d been told
and the ones who told you seemed like
they had it on good authority.

The bags will seem
suspiciously lighter. 
You will open them
and rummage around
but you won’t figure out
what’s missing.

All this and you haven’t even 
packed yet. You’re waiting 
for a sign that it’s time.
You’re crossing your fingers
and swearing an oath
to take as little as you can
and still have enough
for the destination’s demands,
though you can’t know
what those will be until
you get there. What if
there’s nothing there at all?
What if it’s all provided
upon arrival, one of those
all-inclusive deals? 

Your hands are so cramped
you can’t even think straight
right now. You can’t uncross
anything about yourself 
after a lifetime of this.
You can’t just give it up,
get going, get gone. Not now,
not like this, or so
you’ve been told.