Imagine that you have to
choose a life

between being
a grown-up and returning

to your life as a child.
Between today’s glint

of silver metal
and yesterday’s old shine

of polished brown wood,
glimmering

between day
and night.

Imagine you have
to choose between them

and decide what life
will be yours,

that then you turn your back
on them both,

closing your eyes and entering
a space between.

In there the light is perfect
and blue and silver

and polished wood glow.
No issue or problem

with any of it, not for you
anyway. You’ve been there,

after all: halfway, as it were,
between grown and not grown;

torn up in thought
between child and man

though nothing has come
between them.

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

Steam comes out
clean as a whistle
harmonizing with itself or
another whistle we can’t hear;
come out clean
as a knife’s shiny side
in a doctor’s office,
as a whisper
with no dirt on its lips.
I love a hiss of steam
like an announcement of my absence
from day to day life —
not attending anything
substantial, showing up randomly
now and then, taking care
to be noticed in passing only
as a noise heard barely, causing
a person to turn their head rapidly
and then miss the sound,
shake their head, decide against it
being real, forget it mostly
unless they hear it again — that’s
indeed me; misplaced me,
set here by me
deliberately, deliciously; imagine,
what it will be like; can’t take
your eyes away
to spite your ears.
I pass along my love
always for
a phantom hiss of steam,
a kiss of hot water
that might burn you, might not
depending on a whim
of a wind or on
what you might hear.

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

Sunrise.
Cat is sleeping
on the desk. Windows
are just starting to glow.
I am here, as usual, in my
chair waiting for something
new, something very old;
something that is both at once.
Fingers cold, nose tip warmer;
dishes done, dressed warmly;
an average morning except
it’s Christmas Eve, a day
that never feels like any other
and this year feels like failure,
feels like loss. Foolishness —
I am lucky as hell. It is
a mistake I don’t want to make
more than once. I sit patiently
waiting, waiting for something
to happen, waiting for shoes to drop
on my head. I wait all day.
Then I go to bed; cat still asleep,
cold hands, nose tip warmer,
dishes still done, waiting
on an illusion of completion
come Christmas Day,
which will be here soon
in the dark at night, after
sunset.

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

the source, by which I mean
the source by which I judge all knowledge,
the source which tells me what is true
and what is false, tells me that
what I’ve been told is false across the board;
I start to question the source and I hear
inside me, deep inside me, a warning
that it’s not to be questioned
but I don’t know about that; what if
that message is fed to me
by the source? what if it is just
protecting its monopoly? what if
questioning is vital but difficult
to a rube like me? all I know
is that I’m failing at obeying,
at agreeing to it, at being subservient
to it. after all, there are trees
solid outside, rocks of granite
everywhere; why, the very soil is old
crumbled granite — and I don’t feel
like falling for it. what’s true is what
I can feel with my hands and skin.
what’s also true is what lies beyond those things
and sits on the edge of the vast unknowable
beyond. nothing is false — I close my eyes and imagine
a world beyond this one, both real and unreal.
it’s futile to do so but I like it, revel in it; the source
turns its head from me, disgusted
by my rejection. I like it, I truly do;
it almost is too difficult to exist,
even within me.

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

Snatches of song –Lyle Lovett
into Nick Lowe into David Crosby
into Zeppelin into…God knows what this
song is, and only God knows — it’s still
in God’s head, only I can hear it now;

it beats on me, segues into words;
substitutes “sexy” for “smooth” and
rubs “rough” into “avarice”
so that the language hurts my head;
I don’t get what this means

but I strain mightily to do so
and the ribbon of meaning that connects those
strains right back till I settle into a chair
next to my own guitar that I don’t dare play
just yet, just in case I know a spell

that I’ll play inadvertently
and make the world explode, my world
anyway; do you follow me? Do you know
a thing about this?

My mind is something else; some other thing
inside it; carnal, carnivorous, a carnival —
you see what I think of? I put my head down
to weep. I put my head down to eat
my words, hope they stay down this time.

Outside it’s cold in this part of the world;
in other parts it’s warm as hell. I put my intentions
into these poems and they laugh at me
warn or cold, depending on where they are read.
If you do not understand them it may be

because of the weather. You don’t get that,
of course, because of the weather. So:
my head is down, I am hungry, Lyle Lovett
makes me feel good, I’m not open to change.
Sexy, avaricious me. I’m really, really gone.

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

I had the radio on at Christmas time
They played song after song to fit the season
I closed my eyes and thought very hard
This time of year holds a lot of burning
Some of it good like a warm log on a fire
Some of it bad like a warm log
falling out of a hot fire

I had the radio on at Christmas time
They played song upon song to bring it home
I closed my eyes and tried not to think about it
but the music made that impossible
This room filled up with it and I couldn’t hide
from the effect of all that deliberate tuning
to the sounds of the season

I had the radio on at Christmas time
The DJ played songs to represent himself
because he had nothing else to do for work
I closed my eyes and imagined him sad as Hades
Plodding along his curated list because it was expected
that he do his part in making things jolly and bright
even though he felt like ending all later that night

I had the radio on at Christmas time
Closed my eyes and wished the DJ a merry one
He sounded like a broken bell whenever he spoke
Got a pang in his tone wherever he tried to wish it back
But I wished him one anyway despite how useless it felt
to pass on traditional greetings by rote
After all God forbid I said how I really felt

I turned the radio off right after I thought that

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

It seems to be a ritual
that must be followed to the letter

that a man must come forward,
bow his head, read Scripture,

then get up and go forth
and do as he pleases for the rest of the day,

cleansed and ready to face
whatever comes up — a movie,

a private show, one person dancing close
with another be it man or woman

or indiscriminate person;
these are the forms that must be obeyed:

first pay attention to God,
then pay fees to the body and its wants.

And it never seems to fail
that I am separate from this —

I am paid in full ahead of time; I have settled
all debt; thus I am left unheeded;

I dance at my leisure
and sleep when and where I please.

Their rituals go far beyond me.
This world goes on and into itself.

I twirl and laugh myself silly
despite the impending disasters

of this earth decaying and falling
into disrepair; nonetheless,

I twirl foolishly
and sing with abandon.

If they take me, say this:
he went down with a song.

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

Scraps of songs on random tapes;
old songs, new songs, complete and
incomplete; snatches of melody,
harmony; indistinct as to which;
I sit very, very still among them all;
radio off, music off,
television off; why listen
or watch; they want me
to fall in, slip into a warm bath;
I sit and watch and listen to all
and close my eyes, my ears as much
as they can close; thinking hard
on the spectacle of life; thinking
hard about what the songs
have led me to; my eyes closed,
my ears blocked, my mouth
shut tight against speaking,
skin taut with expectation;
no sense left untouched,
no memory worth holding tight,
I sit very still and know this;
my heart is full with it, this
moment, this second,
so I sit very, very still.

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

Look here: a snake is rustling by,
muted diamonds on its back,
barely moving among
grass blades, tongue
flickering out, then in,
silently from this height,
quiet enough to be
unremarkable.

I do remark on it.
There are many reasons not
to speak of it but
I’m a poet. It’s what
I do —

I spare
a moment for that snake
and its progress. In a minute
I may be gone from this plane
but a snake should be seen;
it may keep people off kilter,
it may force some into silence,
and it may push a person to choose
to hulk away through trouble,
like a snake.

Maybe I will do all of those things,
or none of them. Maybe I will leave
a snake where it is.

Maybe there’s no
snake; maybe I dreamed it all
while lying in grass ablaze with
midday fire, imagining what
might appear to me
if I were to lie still:
diamond backed,
if one looks closely enough;
smoothly done, if one
brushes the dirt from his hands
before moving on;
quietly, needing no remark.

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

Orchids in right angle more or less
flow fully bloomed
along branches

have been open
unchanging
for over a month

Pink petals
Redder centers
Doubled up on long stems

I could play a guitar
or write a poem as I sit
waiting for them to shift somehow

To fall off
To brown a bit
To show some kind of decay

but they don’t change
I am fearful of the day
that they will

until I relax
and close my eyes against it
or with it

as orchids go
I will go
or not

depending

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