Libraries and museums
hold scraps of death and life
brought into them by living souls
and left to them by the dead.
I sit with this for a long time.
Weakening rays of sunlight
come in at a slant and fail,
one by one, along these long halls.
Stepping out at the end of the day.
I wonder: which relics tell which story
better; which stories are of life,
which of death?
Relics don’t tell their stories easily but
I turn on my heel and leave them to burn.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Me and the cat,
the cat and me,
I and the cat,
the cat and I
wait in front of the television
for things to happen.
You can put us in any order
you like; we will wait together
like this for fifteen minutes
or five hours; I’ll wait for
the hammer to fall, she will wait
for food or treats or perhaps
nothing at all. Lucky being
that she is, she waits for
whatever comes. I wait for
things I know are coming
and that I fear. Two things,
three things; my own death,
two more, maybe ten or more;
maybe hers will hit me hard,
maybe harder than the others would.
I do not know. I do know
mine would bother her; she’d meow
louder than normal, become listless,
lost in her own miasma
of not understanding it.
I won’t understand it either. Instead
I try to predict the upcoming news
and events, such as they can be.
Of course I’ll get it mostly right,
a few of the important things wrong.
It’s the way of things.
It will not matter if I got it right
once it happens. The cat and me,
me and the cat, I and the cat,
the cat and I will be calm
in the occurrence,
no matter how it’s framed,
no matter how it seems to happen.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
As I walked out on the streets of Laredo,
I realized I have never liked the place.
Oh, sure, I knew the song
and I sang it now and again,
took it out for a walk —
but not a far walk. Seemed like
the road went on forever,
the road lengthened,
went on before me
for miles till I reached
the dusty city; instead of choosing
a longer stop there
I sat down quickly,
took some water
from a bottle I carried, listened
to the song, listened to
wind scraping the dirt; worried
about loved ones. I closed
my stinging eyes. I shut down
and thought of her, and
the wind stung hard,
an angry bee, dancing
before its death on my skin…
“Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story…”
I shook myself awake found myself
going pale, almost ghost, almost
cloud. People walked through me;
I felt them walking, talking, thinking
of lovers and hatred and money
and junk, always junk; whatever I had owned
became junk. I stood up from the curb
and shook myself free. Whatever was mine
I did not want to tell the story of it;
I wanted to be silent
but my tears would not allow it;
preferred to be
all by myself, with all my own words…
“Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin…”
…and the words were red, always red.
Spoken like a burst, an explosion;
a red song beyond melody
and harmony. What else could I do
but speak and sing? I had not been in town
long enough to know anyone and
the street signs all led back the way I came.
Afterthought:
I really, really hate old Laredo. Hate
the long streets, the dust, the memory
of the song I learned in grade school.
I don’t like the new Laredo much, either;
it’s a big city now, full of dust and dirt
and people, always people in cars
shaking off the dust as they zip by, people
who hang their weary heads when someone
starts the song.
Still, there’s the last verse:
“Play the fife lowly and play the drum slowly…”
Play the dead march as they carry me along;
Let the clods rain down on me, I’m going to join them,
For I’m a young cowboy and I know I’ve done wrong.”
Close my eyes every time I hear it.
Imagine the rain.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Saturday begins with music;
it ends following the morning
and the night.
Silence before,
on Friday; silence after,
on Sunday.
In between, a noisy chant;
litany of devils; angels; ordinary
men and women.
There is one moment
you ask for; a moment
of clarity amid the din.
It’s a moment, a few seconds
of rest, quiet before
sounds rise again.
You turn from your window,
face the wall away. You take a few seconds
knowing it will start again
and it does.
Same cacophony;
same ruckus;
music for a disappearance.
You pause amid the noise.
You breathe; you remain intact.
You have done all you can do.
It’s up to the next person
to face the sound.
Up to the next devil, angel,
child or man or woman.
Wipe your hands of it.
Go home, dreaming
of dying wind,
of music unceasing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Sitting
seems to be
all that’s left to do.
I’m waiting for coffee
and listening to the radio;
what else is there to do?
I’m worrying about
my partner leaving
for a month;
worrying on behalf of the cat;
worrying about my mother, my sister;
what else is there to do?
I can get up and check on
the coffee, get up and take
a shower, get up and push
my fists into my eyes, get up
and run ragged into the street,
get up and plead with God for
forgiveness
or better: a sort of fail-safe status.
What else is there to do?
I’m planning to be alone,
planning my options
to see people, planning
to dance in a quiet room
thirteen stories above this one,
planning a murder, a suicide,
a quiet death all by myself in my bed;
what else is there to do?
Instead I sit and sip coffee.
Well, this is good coffee. I’ll have to
get more soon. Have to be
ready, alert, scheming results;
thinking, always thinking of the future;
instead I just sit here.
What else is there to do?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
The coffee is good, the day coming up
is good, the clothing I’ve chosen to wear,
the anticipation for breakfast: all good.
I’m good myself with nothing beyond
the usual halt in my step and the coldness
of my hands and the space in my head
where memory used to sit and hold court.
I’m pretty good, actually. I’m damned OK
with how I am, just dandy with what I am
now. Granted that there’s a difference
between my past and my present; after all
I disremember the old days. They’re a blank.
There is a sort of cloud between me and the memory
of them. They are blocked out with only a piece
showing up now and then like a coin dropped
in a fountain or more appropriate to the experience,
like a coin left on a railroad track to flatten.
Ever notice how warm the pennies were after the train
passed? I liked that warmth. I remember it,
I think; it’s a blur, though. Do I recall it
or am I making it up? It doesn’t matter,
I guess. The day coming up
is good anyway; the clothes I’m wearing
are the same as yesterday’s, and there is
an unimportant coffee stain on the left sleeve
where I think I spilled yesterday. It doesn’t
matter what I did or didn’t do then.
I will likely do it again at some point.
See a penny, pick it up; put it in
your pocket; forget why you put it there;
lay in on the track to get ruined.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Still sitting, not
moving, equally
forthcoming and
shy, equally bold
and leftover as if I am
lukewarm food
hovering between
edible and distasteful;
still losing weight
as if I am beautiful;
sill dropping skin
as if I had some left to give;
not beat, prepared
to spark a fit in those
watching me though
I know it will not happen;
resolved to take
long nights coming
at face value, nights
stretching into days
into yawning nights;
but I am still here, by God;
still here for this moment
and any others that
decide among themselves
that this is their moment
and not mine.
I will be beaten for certain
and I will likely be destroyed
by this world,
but
by God,
I will remain
laughing behind it,
laughing till I am gone;
laughing until
I lie down on the stony earth
and seek my final comfort
from these hard places —
ones I lie on,
ones I made for myself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
People die. Everyone does.
Every last one of us
will take that final
step. No matter if
you dread it or welcome it
or just face it or not, you
will do it same as me, same
as a Tuscan peasant woman or
an old-timey soldier or
an ersatz self-important
man. So:
take me as you find me, Death;
you as pretty smooth girl, as
a wolf with golden eyes, as nothing
at all in fact. Take me
whole and happy, serene with you
and your grace, or as violent rager
in the moment of crash and burn;
take me and let them wail for me
and gnash their teeth over me
or sniff, after some time has passed,
at the mention of my name,
or forget me entirely.
I won’t quibble even if I am aware
of these dismissals and histrionics.
They won’t matter.
What will matter
is me sitting by a window
on a balcony in a small city, my words
on paper before me, a cup of good coffee
before me.
What will matter
is me there at peace
for once in my messy life, for once
content amid all the chances to mourn
myself and the tangle I’ve faced and
run from;
me saying it is finished
and meaning it; me turning back
to the pages of the book writing itself
before me and wondering, marveling
that it came out this way; surprised
at the detail, moved to tears
by the turns of events, surprised
really and truly that it took me so long
to see it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Start with a television
turned on to the left
with no one watching.
Add to it one Telecaster,
tuned mostly up and untouched,
on a stand to the right.
In between, place a man
whose friends stay away
for fear of catching
his illness, his strokes,
his mental anguish — what
have you?
What have you, indeed?
The bare bones of a problem
simply defined: simply put,
keep a short leash on memory.
Long time past is not worth visiting;
close your eyes against it.
Keep to a short time before nightfall instead,
keep no time to think of a different answer.
Keep the rest of time in the world
to pick the guitar up, tune it up,
stumble through playing a wee bit.
Nothing else will do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
it’s winter, nearly.
his days indoors
feel like that’s a lie
but it is not.
cold dawn
stretches into cold morning
then into cold darkness
with only a bit of sunlight
warming the in between time.
in his front yard
two hibiscus bushes,
one under each window,
are done for this year
with their business of blooming
and pulling in bees
to stumble clumsily in and out,
in and out.
in his front yard
trash piles up a little now
on rare occasions beneath
branches now almost denuded
with leaves still hanging on
amid a rising number
of brown, tough
seed pods that only come off
unwillingly
when one
tugs at them.
he calls himself a boy
but he knows he isn’t. calls himself
a man but he’s not even sure
of that.
one thing he does know:
there is a gap between
being adult
and being old and he
sits puzzled in that gap
much as trees hold onto
leaves, cling tough
to seed pods — unwilling
to let go and see them fall
into the rubbished earth.
winter comes on
inexorably enough
that he can’t debate it.
instead he’ll try
to let the trees stand alone with
wind in the thinness of their
branches, the density
of their futures
held so tightly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Do you know? Is it obvious?
I have so little left to say
I really should stop. But I can’t,
not while there are still armed men out there
who talk, talk, talk without speaking.
Not while there are still armed women out there
who talk, talk, talk
without speaking.
So — I will muster up a barrage
of things to say
and drown them out and they will kill me
or silence me in some other way.
I will find myself there, I know;
a prodigal ancient man
looking to leave enough behind
to be a goad. A sunrise prodding.
I am just an American with
enough warts and damage
to die and be unappetizing
as they swallow me down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Daylight. Lack of
interest. Lack of
desire to see it
through.
Sit here and think
of not-thinking. Think
of little. It’s not thinking
of a void; more like
each thought is broken
willfully off of the previous
one, or the subsequent
one; sit here with
evil, impartial daylight. You know
you are supposed to feel uplifted — not so;
you aren’t; are adrift
or stationary in a river of thought.
Do you have what you need,
all of it, every scrap of it? Doubtful;
daylight ought to be complete
in itself and it isn’t
that. An occasion for
mourning, perhaps, at the close
of dawn. Thus beginning the ordinary
lit hours, you bend your head and moan.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Julie, or Kate. Maybe
Joan — I can’t remember
the name of the singer
on the radio right now.
Once I could. I had a memory
close to God’s, if I can
speak of that — I promise you,
I whisper it in my head
so God won’t hear me if
in fact God is listening, which
I sincerely doubt based on
God’s inattention to various
disasters here in the moment:
marchers in our streets
confronted by sneering cretins;
the climate slowly bubbling;
inequality and poverty
endemic — who am I kidding?
God isn’t made for that. God
eats our offerings and
burps them up without a care
for the world. Julie
or Kate or even Joan don’t
matter to him, or to me.
What matters to me now
is the simple fact of living —
hanging on to moments
of peace, holding on to grace.
I listen to the radio hoping
for one moment where
it does not matter one bit
who I hear or if I can choose
one singer or another
to pin the voice on. Julie
or Kate or Joan can go forth
singing forever and a day
will come for them as it comes
for me and no one will care
amid the tumult of war
and famine, in the middle
of peace and freedom
and lack of want. No one
will care for more than
their own voice and the hope
that it will be heard.
As for me and God,
we will have their backs.
We will have them at heart
as we listen to them
and if God forgets,
I will not until I go.
Julie, Kate, Joan — I swear
I remain with you,
you have me, you have got me,
I’m your man, your biggest fan,
I will stay true, even when
you stop singing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
On the radio
intertwined guitars
go weaving; me,
half-asleep,
thinking of how I
could play this.
Deciding I can’t
and, swallowing
my overanxious pride,
tumble into becoming
fully unconscious
until morning.
I’m not much better
when I get up; stagger out
and put the radio on.
Sit down, drink coffee;
pretty much my whole morning
till I get up and try
to play — after I write,
of course. Always
after I write. Trying to recall
what had come last night
and failing…again.
Deciding I can’t, yet
again. I will try
at some point but again,
yet again,
not today.
Writing is
all I have left. It’s not
wonderful, barely
worth noticing; still,
I write and I write.
Deciding I’m
not worthy to hold a pen.
I toss it down.
Not worthy, so I will seize
my guitar; not worthy
of that either; I set it
back on its rack and then
I sit and sit some more
as the earth moves with me,
moves under me; as the sky
moves above me, with me;
as I move with them, through them
with a guitar unplayed, a pen
unused on the scarred table;
each of us unused
as we will be for the rest
of our days.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
onward,
T
The radiator’s hissing and popping
and there is nothing I can say
to add to that
except that it’s cold although
not quite winter or even high autumn
so it seems incredible
not quite real
Nothing in fact seems real
The rare pickup trucks screaming by
with bumper stickers professing love for Trump
in the back window
The smaller cars speeding by
bearing USA flags that speak ambiguously
of love or whatever for whatever this is now
No one drives a junker anymore
Half the cars have the new flat paint
in gray or red or that accursed white
that doesn’t seem quite right although
it’s supposed to be neutral
I want to stop them and shout at them
I want to stop them and say look what you’re doing
I want them to get mad and strike at me
with furious vengeance
with righteous anger
But I suspect I’m on the losing side
I suspect they’d cower and maybe call a cop
who will come by and either
lock me up or put me in a loony bin
or send me home
At home I would sit and pound
my palms with my face
My face ten years removed from daily engagement
with them — with a cause
I’d be a frog sitting in slowly boiling water
I’d be a dead man or maybe a dying man
knowing my time is cut and unraveling
a cotton string twisted wrongly
too many times to hold together strongly
At home I’d take all my daily pills at once
and lie down to take fate
by the face
Cradle it in my hands as I pass
Except I suspect I’d just get sick and toss them
from my stomach like a bad meal
I go back to the radiator and sit very still
Try to anticipate the hiss and predict the pop
My neighbors will never know the joy
of this anticipation of what will happen
Even though it will be terrible
Nothing will happen while I’m alive to see it
I will smile from beyond the grave at its occurrence
and when it comes to my neighbors I will pity them
though they know not what they do
though they will be surprised
though they will cower in shock
though they and their children may die
I will close my eyes
Die with them
in a storm of pity
hissing and popping all the way home
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Dark Matter 