I love the first blush
of a fever
that makes me appreciate 
how good I was feeling
till just now; 
makes me nostalgic 
for ten seconds ago.

Ten hours from now
I’ll be miserable, of course;
I’ll look back and it will seem
faintly ridiculous
that I laid glory
upon some germ for this, and

if by remote chance it kills me
this will be prophetic and tragic to some
and stupid and sad to most others,

but I’m going to sit here and enjoy
the little rush of warmth right now,
the throat scratch,
the vague buzz of my body
shutting down for repairs:

no matter how it feels,
it’s still a sign that things
are as they should be.

Soldier
stands down
briefly,
puts aside
his magician’s gun,
exhausted from
participating in
disappearances.

Soldier
sits on a riverbank.
Soldier
thinks about how he
could disappear.

After a few more years
of this, we see him and find
he has.
He’s now a dad and
there’s not a drop
of that old magic
to be found.

Dad conjures,
sits on a porch,
laughs at his kids.

Once he knew
how vanishing
works, how worlds
can disappear.
That was
his life, his
riverbank, his
magic. This new
grimoire he’s writing,
these different spells…
it demands laughter,
it instead manifests
and creates.

God says

to find peace
to link arms with it
and ride with it beyond death
one must seek
the one pebble in the one gravel bed
the one rootlet
on the one tree in the one forest
and cleave to them
and forsake all others

we take that as true
we misunderstand it

holy is not
held in the stone 
or the root
holy instead
the search

holy the touch of each stone
we turn over
of each tree whose bed
we plunge our hands into
while seeking

holy even the choice
to say

that Voice is just in my head
and there is no need to search

to just pick up a random stone
and skip it over a pond
point after it and say
that now invisible path
is as good as any

I’m roused from late morning slacker sleep
by the sound of blows and smacks
and bouncing stones.

I get up and head for the window:
where’s that coming from?
I see a young man

on my side walkway
tossing rocks at the windows
of the house next door.

It’s the original doorbell,
the first alert ever devised,
and apparently it still works

because I hear “yo”
from an unseen mouth
and the man heads down the walk

to the street and then the next yard.
A few more indistinct words, the door closes,
he’s gone.

Earlier in the week
my landlord fixed
my own winter warped front door

so it would lock again.
We joked about replacing
that pane of thick glass

with the bullet hole in it,
agreed that it gave
the old door character

and so
was better
left alone.

It now closes
and locks like new
and my doorbell works

so I guess
we’re in tip top shape here,
unlike the house next door

without doorbells,
the house which still
has the scar on its driveway

from last summer’s
Molotov cocktail incident.
And of course

we’re nothing like the street
over the hill from us
where yesterday the bomb squad

had to come and get that thing
off someone’s spare tire
so they could go to work.

All in all stones clattering
against glass next door
means little more to me

than a moment of broken sleep
which will be lost soon enough
in the sound of my renewed snoring.

Who really cares about 
sticks and stones?
Bandages and pain meds
handle those just fine;

but a name like that one?
It comes down
like a slab of whirlwind-flung
concrete.

It doesn’t matter
what the old proverb
insists upon.  Names
carve and crush and 

starve and slush you,
and then, there you are: 
nothing but remains, and
no one knows

how to ask
after you,
no one knows how to reach
your next of kin.

to master the art of the one-off

do it once
and call it a day

a one-off show
a one-off album
a one-off lifetime

do it once
and never come back

leave everyone wanting
more

an artist of the one-off
bucks that tired reincarnation trend
of hogging time
of insisting on
do overs
continuing sagas
serial dramas
endless sequels
just because it seems
so hard to get it right
the first time through

the one-off artist
instead declares
that whatever happens is
because it happens

already
enough

I follow 
a same-every-morning routine
of

blood drop,
breakfast,
coffee,
screen and keys

into 
an unknown chaos called
the day,

much as I might follow
a constant called
North Star

into 
darkness;

tugged along thus by hope
and discipline,
I can be certain
that even if clouds move in,
when they are gone
that star
will be there again.

It’s time
to just be high
and let go
of one moment
of control.

I can’t feel much
in my little fingers
right now. My feet
burn whenever
I put weight on them.
Something’s
wrong with my body,
but nothing’s wrong with 
that;

what’s happening
is what should happen
at this stage
of The Condition
and
while I’ll treat it
and fight it and 
et cetera it,

it’s doing
what it is made to do and
the body’s reacting
as it was made to do
so

I’m going to get high
and take a moment to say
all is dead on for the horizon
and all is right with 
my tingling, burning,
blood-shot world.

Went for a walk
and found a granite ledge
calling from where
it poked through
the frozen floor
of a clearing

I put my ear to it

The voice was
unlike that in a shell
that cradles
the womb-song of
ocean

Instead
a muffled
operatic baritone
declaimed other essentials
and broke now and then
into warm silence

I cannot recall a word I heard

although
inside me
the sacristy
where I hold
my best self
still rings
and echoes

and I have placed
a stone
in my pocket
to carry with me
always

he came late
sat at my table

after some small talk
and some formalities 
he began to speak
of why we were meeting

he had changed
he said 

drank from a tall glass of whiskey
ran an unsteady hand over his head
front to back

he had changed
he said again

not the same man
had done some growing up
came to realize, etc.

working his steps

I looked hard at the glass
then at him
at his eyes

I said 
put it together for me
make it make sense

oh
not for this he said
tilting the glass 
to make his point

for the other

I said
what other 
he said

water under the bridge
over the broken dam
does it matter
what other
trying to talk here
trying to make amends

ran hand over head
tilted the glass
I’ve changed he said
I’m sorry

I’m sorry 
dammit 
ingrate
wait
no 
sorry

he tossed apologies
at the back of my head
as I stopped tilting
at windmills
and walked out

dime and penny
in my pocket.
eleven cents:

all I’ve got.

it may not seem worth
hanging on to
but I will hang on to it

for if I give you
a penny for your thoughts
I’ll feel I’ve overpaid

and then all I’ll have
is one thin dime
so how will I ever
make some time?

eleven cents
is nothing to build on.
you can’t buy anything
with it.
it’s not even enough
to make me feel more lost
if I lose it,

but I will hold
dime and penny
even though
they don’t clink
when they collide
in my pocket,

even though
they make more
of a grinding sound.