Go, please —
flame on, sun on, turn
your light outside;

my baby, glow;
I implore you:
sun on.

This is not
a well-lit world.
Plenty of dark corners,

much in the shadows
and there’s good there
and bad, much bad,

but your light
will help sort it out
if you keep it lit.

You’ve also got me
to deal with — I know
what that means,

even if you do not fully,
not yet; let’s just say
I’m a tankful of shadow

and some days
I’m leakier than others.
You might wake up one day

awash in flooding gloom.
If it happens, promise me
you’ll go flame on,

sun on, and get moving
even if I don’t follow.
All my limited hope

is in your light and heat;
I’m not mean enough
to hold you in my dark;

promise me you’ll remember
and flame on, sun on, light on —
promise you’ll follow it, and live.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NOTE:  today is the sixth anniversary of this blog.  (There are older dated entries because I imported my old Livejournal entries here.)  

Also, this is the 5000th post, for whatever that’s worth.

Thanks for reading — T

Thinking today
of the cave high in the cliff
above Frijoles Canyon,

how I needed to climb
140 feet straight up
to see it,

how I tore off
up the trembling ladders
bearing my fear of heights

on my back the whole way,
facing into the rock
as I rose

until I faced the scooped out
back wall of the cave,
walked to the kiva

and looked inside, how I then
sat for a while looking out
until

I had to turn and step
into space backward
140 feet in the air

to begin the descent,
how I had to prepare
to fall, to fall, to fall

just that one
first step and how I felt
upon finding it —

and what I felt like
once back on the floor of
Frijoles Canyon,

how I ran back up the trail
to the parking lot — thinking today
of how it can be that 

once upon a time
I took my fear, bundled it up,
took it with me to the place of fear

and did not die —

how is it that this escapes me daily,
how is it that I cannot
stop being a coward?

If I’d been born a house,
I would have liked to have had
a family within me.  I’d have enjoyed
the traditional nature of my insides
and thrilled to the secrets and confidences
shared among the loving members, and if
had by chance been infected with
a family of abuse, perhaps a light
through one of my windows
might have illuminated a moment of pain,
and changed the approach of a bad person
into one of remorse.

If I’d been born a workshop,
a factory, or a personal craft studio —
I’d have enjoyed the daily industry within,
the making of well-tooled items
by hand or with complex and elegant
machines.  At night after all
had returned to their homes I’d have light
from the moon enter and caress
the worn surfaces, the works in progress,
the waiting benches yearning to be filled.

But I was born instead a man
with an interior crowded with guts and stench,
and there’s no light getting in there.
I don’t know how to take what goes on in there,
from war to self-hatred, from spilled bile
to a circular flow of sugar sludged blood.
I see it all and ask myself, how is it possible
that I am guest or intruder
in my own skin? If I am that,
then I want to believe
that a spirit also dwells within,
something different,
something handy,
something skilled,
something like family
to this betrayed munchkin
speaking to you here
who is watching helplessly
as it all goes to shit;
but the evidence suggests
otherwise,
and that’s why
I daydream
of such very different
birthdays.

When the word got out
that dogs are in fact 
those angels spoken of
in so many spiritual traditions,
there was a run on premium chow
and custom leather collars.

When the word got out
that cats made up a portion
of the heavenly host as well,
salmon became endangered
and mice were demonized anew.

When it became known
that those without homes, 
those who walk our streets
seeking shelter, those filthy
difficult humans
who huddle wherever 
some measure of heat and 
roof can be found
also have a holy role —

nothing changed, as those
who depend on sweet faces
and soft touch as talismans
of good refused that Word
and relied upon their own ease
to validate the meanness 
of their theology.

Here’s the very definition
of an asshole for you:

took up inordinate space in our heads
while alive,

keeps on doing it now that
he’s dead.

Up early again
but this time, 
raised up out of sleep
by contentment.  
Winter’s
almost over.
Can’t hear a bird out there yet.

Next door, though, Luis
and his battered old pickup
are rattling around in the driveway,
meaning most likely
he’s found work again at last,

and since he’s a carpenter,
a framer of homes, 
that’s a likely
sign of spring — that

and all the gray trash
we thought we’d lost
in all those storms
peeking out
of the shrinking snowbanks
where it’s been hiding,

and this suddenly familiar,
utterly different light
between the triple deckers
which now look like
they need a good wash.

Waking up content —
in need of a good wash myself,
not yet pissed at Luis
for being so noisy so early,
not yet shamed 
into picking up
the gray trash (waiting
sensibly
till those banks melt
a bit more),
knowing 
there will be birds
and green
soon enough.

A city spring
doesn’t come in
abruptly,
offering instead
something more
in keeping with
how dark it has been
for a while now —
not wanting to shock us
by exploding
into lovely
all at once.

dead horse
start digging

it isn’t going to hurt you
start digging

dead horse
it’s not a game
it can’t be won

dead horse
start digging

put the whip away
the club away
stop shouting
start digging 

it’s going to be
hot tomorrow
it’s warmer today
than yesterday
it’s a dead horse
it’s upwind of us
start digging

stop beating it
you can’t win

stop beating 
the dead horse

dead horse
start digging
dig that dead horse
how it smells

it’s no prize
it’s not a game

you can’t win
stop beating

start digging
dead horse
start digging
a big hole
bigger
make it bigger digger
bigger

dead horse takes a big hole to hide

stop beating it
it just gets softer and harder to roll
when you do
and we’re going to need to roll it
into the hole
when we’re done

dig
big
it’s a big horse
a dead horse
dead

Wake up
what you call
“alone”
but for the furniture,
ceiling, walls, floor,
paint, wiring, 
glass windows,
art, books, 
consumer electronics,

all of which are talking,
all of which are listening.

Later, still (perhaps)
“alone”
except for the aforementioned 
et cetera, and
all have shut up
or down
or fallen silent. 

Describe my days
however you want.
Say lonely, 
say empty,
say sad:

I still don’t miss you.

My body’s not right tonight.
I have to keep it from writing this poem.
I have to intervene. It’s attempting
the first person, so I respond:

butter pat,
maple sauce,
meaty arms of the morning.

This may make it seem that I am forgetting my manners,
not addressing you, my guest, when in fact I am trying
to make you comfortable, keep my body
from breaking house rules:

iron opening, 
bronze axe,
stone regard.

My body escapes, taking hostages
as it flees.  It demands the poem
as ransom. I counter the offer,
a good faith gesture:

car diversion,
bicycle mentor,
skateboard stopgap.

Alas, my body still demands the first person.
I hand it over. I, I, I 
apologize to you, my guest, sorry as well 
to the gatekeepers, I’m only trying to save — 

lead box,
lead coffin,
lead grave marker

trying to save another
from my body’s insistence
upon a faithful rendition
of its version of this moment — 

lead box, 
lead casket,
lead picture frame

The content of the moment is never what matters.
What my body insists upon never changes.
How it is insulted and ravaged never changes.
How it blossoms anyway never changes —

rose escapement,
daisy escarpment,
aster entrapment

I will not apologize again to you, my guest here;
by now it must be obvious that what matters
is not what the body demands, but whether it presents the demand
as sentence, or as spell.

Small wars are
fought daily, arson
is our flag, conflagrations
our gross national product, smoke is
always rising somewhere,
look for its sources and you’ll find reason
brittle and blackened in the embers,
compassion remnants scrap metal hot
in the embers, the bones of children
in the embers. Constant scent of meat
rising from the embers.  Gag reflex
would seem the only sane discourse left to us
once we see the embers, and yet
we start new fires, toss the same fuel
into them, stagger home to survey the sky
and go out again the next morning
to mourn over the same deathful embers
as if we expected things to be different
simply because we wrung our hands so strongly
over the deathful embers
we saw the day before.

For a long time, medical experts recommended
a daily gargle with salt water. So

she went to the ocean, where at once
she wished she had gone to the desert.

There were trees growing out of holes
in the city sidewalks back then. So

when she got home from the ocean she walked that walk,
only to wish she had instead talked the talk.

Every possible avenue has been exhausted
for the resolution of our most basic problems. So

she dwells now in a gated community where she dreams
of life on the road in a retiree-retrofitted RV.

If anything ever went as planned everyone would die
of shock followed by boredom. So

she is going to take notes on every dissatisfied moment
from now on.  At some point she will be content,

then a moment later will turn back
to all the other paths, just to see

if the same emotions rise to meet her
on different roads.

Dead flowers,
sang the Stones,
dead flowers
make a proper gift,
and roses
on a grave
make for
a proper response.

I don’t know
if that’s true,
but once
an angry woman
laid a fifty dollar bill on me

screaming that she
could not return
flowers I had given her
since they were already
dead and discarded.

I know
I could have used a grave
right then
in which to hide from her
and I can still feel
her blowtorch eyes today
though I truly cannot recall
what I did
to earn such
a rock and roll shaming
as that.