He scolded me
for using what he called a cliche.
He scolded me
for reinforcing a fear
of the dark of the moon.
He scolded me
for accepting that a Devil
offers deals at a crossroads.
He scolded me
for not including the harder Deal
that Jesus offers,

and I replied

that we shouldn’t lie about
cliches
that are
both trite
and true.

We all know a crossroads
where the Devil can be found.
Those spaces
only exist
under a dark moon,

and if Jesus
tries to set up
there
where roads meet
he has to know
that at such a crossroads
he will always be
second in line:

“Wait your turn,
man-God,
wait your turn.
Out of all places
this is the one
that will never be
securely yours.”

After I was done
I waited for a reply
but all I could see
was him shrinking from view
as he walked back down
the road he’d taken
to get here.

Near the intersection
of “doing not at all well”
and “better off than most;”

leaning into that crossroads,
waiting for company.
Of course it’s well known

who’s coming. Of course;
it’s dark of the moon.
And — don’t care. So tired,

can’t imagine
how it could be
otherwise

with this head like a post
of iron, solid dead inside
and bound to draw lightning;

pour that fire
on, it’s flame bath time;
time to get some

of that sweet burn.
Hear that engine, blown,
bored, coming closer?

That’s the Flamethrower
himself. He is getting
out of the car now.

It’s getting ugly now.
Not doing well at all and
only doing better than most

because most
already have been here
and done that;

can’t imagine how it is possible
that here I stand, ready to shake
his slim warm hand.

This drunken poem
was written to prove
it can be done.

It can be done:
a word at a time
is laid into place.

A small set
of letters
pressed into service here,

a longer string there,
and all at once
it’s done.

Only then
is it permitted
for me to fall asleep,

the labor perhaps
to be dismantled
in the morning

but it was worth doing, if only
to make a boast about control and
the nature of art:

the Work
is there for the doing
no matter your mood

or what myths
you tell yourself or others
about inspiration.

Carve first,
explain later — and
watch the poem

stagger over
and spit into the face
of the self-important Muse.

If you keep smearing me,
if you again and again
draw your angry hand across me
and pull me flat and messy over
the ground where I’m trying to stand,
you will just get me all over you.

As sick as it seems,
that might be OK,
as a certain level of disdain,
a reasonable helping of hatred,
and generous verbal abuse
are so familiar to me
I don’t know
if anything else
could feel normal.

I shall not be  
a sainted victim, of course;
I can give you 
ammunition. Subtle digs,
not so subtle betrayals,
suspicions, backhanded 
proof, vicious howling
now and then.

We should agree
that now and then
we shall ease up enough on each other
to see that good is possible,
as those glimpses
will make the anguish
sharper.

You may be stuck with me
but since you like 
giving me what works for me
and I can easily
be there for you as well
in that regard,

let us make a go of this.

Here, they say,
there was once
a great stoneworking
civilization.

It wasn’t a white one
so it must have been
installed here
for the natives’ sake 
by advanced beings
from the very white Atlantis or
a likely pale planet or galaxy.
There’s not much left to go on,
they say.
What’s left is a mystery,
they say.
More than what meets the eye
went on here,
they say.

I turn away nodding
from the lecture
and stretch my hands;
I can feel the tombs
of its builders in my blood.
More than what meets
the eye going on here still;

you should thank your God
that you cannot understand
how my teeth
back up my smile.

Ever, never;
now, always;
stuffed, hungry;
white, not-white;
manic, depressed.
I am entirely built from
pairs of words
and therefore
in all my many centers,
no matter
which ones 
you choose
to see, 
there shall be 
an observable
void.

Ridiculous name given
to a myth of a hideous animal
whose only escape plan if captured
is to turn itself into wetness and salt

There’s a tramp on a dirty road
He carries a squonk he has caught
in a dirty sack
thinking he’s really got something here

This man has some typical issues
Typical pain writ large upon him
Wraps himself for daily cover
in typical sad old clothes

He’d trapped sorrow in the wild
Hoping to tie his own to its back
Hoping to set it free and watch it all go
All he has now to show is a stain

That bag on his back has sprung a leak
The squonk falls in drops in the roadside dirt
Hemlock springs up in each little crater
marking a sting flavored trail

He’s stuck with all he came in with
and a sad myth of a squonk trapped in a bag
Who will believe he once had pain contained
and dared to believe that might make him happy

A tramp on a road with a bag holding nothing
A man soaked to his skin with damage and coping
It’s enough that he thought he might get away
Enough for the moment at least till tomorrow

Go ahead — sneer at a coming storm
the way you’d brush off
a slight head cold.

Go ahead — curse the weather people
you claim are likely making blizzards
out of flurries.

As you do,
a woman whose cardboard sign
you’ve driven by every day for months

is tucking herself into thin blankets and tarps
under the plastic roof of a lean-to
behind a long empty auto shop.

She knows how to read
that blank gray sky,
the silence, the dead cold.

She knows what’s coming.
People without homes
know better than you ever could

how cold it will be,
how deep it will be, how likely it is
that some of them are going to die.

Go ahead — complain about
the insignificance of the weather to you.
As you complain, think about

what it takes to make that true, and how much
of what it takes you could spare
for that woman (if you ever see her again)

standing on that corner 
with her sign
that says “God Bless You,”

meeting your eyes
with a look that says she thinks
you deserve that blessing.

Spent my junior year
at a prep school
where I ran with a bunch
of other problems
in letter jackets —
spoiled kings
looking for footmen
to serve us
and lackeys to punish.
We had our regular targets,
and Andrew Dillon was one.

Something
was off with that kid.
We felt it, he felt it,
it showed in all things
from locker to dorm

but his sweetness,
so obvious
behind his clumsiness,
protected him from
our worst rages. His eyes
would trickle a little
each time we’d threaten
casual violence
for his social screw-ups
and awkward moments,
and we’d be shamed
into just slapping his head
or throwing mock punches
till he ran,
and we’d laugh.
Eventually
he became our
mostly ignored mascot,
primarily (I think)
as a way to survive us.

One day
just for shits and giggles
we made Andrew
fight his best friend
in front of us during lunch.
They threw sad little blows and tried
to wrestle to some outcome
they thought would satisfy us.
We urged them on,
pushing them back together
when they separated,
snot and blood
thick and sticky
upon their uniforms.

Andrew’s fat little adversary
landed one hard on his jaw,
screamed as he did it,
a shrill primal rip
in the air around them.
I saw a tooth fly in a red arc;
I saw Andrew go down;
I felt myself panic;
I let myself run with the others.

Andrew had a lightly broken jaw,
lost two teeth,
and was suspended for fighting.
His friend was expelled.
We got a talking to from Coach
and the head master yelled at us
but because there was a game
that weekend
we had detentions for two weeks
and because we won
that was all
anyone wrote.

As for sweet Andrew,
he stayed away from us,
and the likes of us,
forever after.

Some of my
so-called friends
are in truth
proud to be bullets
resting in chambers
waiting
to bark and
bite me, and I
am unable
to offer any defense
except that
I do not want to die —
at least
not like this —

staring you down,
forever expecting
the worst of you,
fearing
you’ll pierce me
in the name of
something
you pretend
is love.

I think my life
has been a campaign
of scorched earth
except that I burned
what was before me,
and thus walked
into these barrens
fully aware
of what was coming,
feeling somehow
that all the pain
was required of me
in order to illustrate for some
what not to do,
how not to live.

My life was never 
my own, and happiness
was not for me except 
in short bursts
which were meant
to make me hurt more
when they were inevitably
blown away.

Call me what you want —
insane, mad, depressed, 
evil, deluded, wrong, 
wrong, wrong — 
I will agree
but only because such labels
comfort you,
not me,
never me.