Suppose you take a moment
out of your busy day and reflect,
like a mirror, on your failings
since you fell victim to the CVA

and were unable to tell the time
by ear or simple sense of gap between
this moment and the last:
suppose time were lost to you

and suppose you have fallen prey to
a sort of despair that clings to you
with your head down, a weight
on your neck, more than a blanket roll

but less than a rock, a boulder even;
time moving so, so slowly as you try
to think fast, to respond as you used to;
suppose you found yourself like this

one day, thought it would pass
but then ths next day comes and it does not;
didn’t you ramble about your worry
that this might happen? You can’t take this

perpetually unchanging sense of time
not being yours to govern. You can’t take
time not being yours to command. A stroke
changes all of it. A stroke humbles you

implacably. I woke up insatiable
focused on the correct time like a drink
that would soothe me and instead a clock
proves my undone worth. I’m going to sit here

until I have failed utterly. Suppose
I will find a balance between what I think
the time should be and what it is? Fat chance.
A rock and another rock, grinding me down.

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

onward,
T

I woke up sad. Felt
useless, worn out —
then I tuned my guitar-lele
to an analogue of DADGAD,
worn-out strings and all
until it sounded somewhere
in the neighborhood of right

and then I hung it on the wall —
two taps of the hammer, no more
than that — hung it right where
I could grab it if there ever came
a hurry to heal things, a need for speed
in fixing the earth to prevent
catastrophe, even if all that would be better
would be me

and my choice to not end
there would be negated or at least
put off. It’s there now
before breakfast and a shower,
after the dishes are done.

Before the needful, after
the needful. Right then
it was the needful; I am glad
to have it done so the music
awaits me from the white wall,
the dark wood, the still-polished strings.

I don’t know what comes next. If anyone
knows whisper it in my ear;
let me stretch my crippled fingers
to the tune.

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

having a cup of strong coffee as I type.
this is all I live for.

not even live for,
exactly. I exist for this. I make up
for all my faults, small or large, grievous
or trivial, even the imaginary ones,
this way.

if you approve
of this way of life — this shunning
of brave face, this jaw lightly open
until I shut it tight — with there
being a purpose behind it, however small
and trivial —

you can clap, you can
shower me with kisses or one good
slap on the back and heartful
congratulations — you can go for it
and I won’t mind because

today I’m like any bug
landing here for a moment:
anonymous for a brief second
but memorable.

like the taste
of a good cup of coffee,

lasting until I wash off
or am rinsed away.

Five forty six AM; I am sitting
on the edge of my seat. My heart
is a little bit faster than normal.
I am not sweating much; that’s all;
this is how an origin begins.

How the story
has grown from nothing to small facts;
how the story will grow farther and faster
in the interval and I will wake up after sleeping
to find it grown.

Five forty nine AM
and the break between starting and here
has become consequential; I am lying down
and trying not to breathe too quickly.
An origin story takes time to grow.

How the story
does grow, does slow, adds substance;
how there are names that come and go
and slowly change, and how I fold
my contributions in until they are seamless.

Six seventeen AM.
I am wrapping up. The story
will continue, of course; of course
it will. I will turn away from it. Pay it
little mind. It is in its own glory, after all.

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

I don’t know
how to say
I found you;
just — I did.
I found you
and you were
wearing the same
clothes, the same
outfit, the exact
costume she was.
I did not
know how long
I played; just
know I did
and it lasted
a little while
or perhaps longer.
Eventually, it seemed
longer. I did
the needed stretch
and you were
released and ran.
You ran, eventually,
and I fell
to the earth
and cried joyfully;
I was free.
At last. Dreams
had come…true?
Figment of imagination?
You know, friend,
I’ve lost track.
Did you exist?

Let’s suppose it was like
they say…let’s choose
to believe them when they say
it’s terrible in here.

Let’s assume
they were right — that
everything clumsy is real
and you will find no grace in here.

Let us choose to believe them
and to leave them unmocked
and untroubled as they walk away,
brushing off their hands, never looking back.

Your flights will go unseen by them.
Your rising up and up will go unseen by them.
You might have been clumsy — skinned knees
and hands as you picked yourself up and rose

for all time — you might have been awkward,
flailing as you nonetheless elevated yourself
from the earth to the air above it; no matter.
You flew and in less time than it has taken me

to tell this story, you were supported by the air.
You were lifted above and while they did not catch on,
they knew — they knew. They knew that the earth
seemed less bound. They felt it — they felt it.

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

The coffee? It’s good. The aftermath
of it, the flavor that stays with you? It’s
good. All of it is good, stays with you,
is satisfying — that’s enough. You can sit
for hours with it and it will be enough
to hold you. What is fair about this? Nothing
and everything — you could sit for hours
with it, immobile as you are, and rotted things
and intact items will rise up unchanging
before you; there will be roses of incredible
perishable loveliness and then the letter will come
with its tale of tax debt and ruin
and still you will sit with stolid loveliness intact
and you will say, shrug voiced, not solemn:
amen. This is good coffee. I think another cup
is in order for the good of my health and the world.

It is not much —

a shoelace’s distance
in fascination; no distance at all,
really.

It is not enough to stave off
the deep funk of second sight, of wondering
how much it will take to enter the room,
close the door, fall into the black mist of
whatever comes next…frankly
to die…

but the cat sleeps by the window
and doesn’t stir at all as I pet her.

If it’s not too much to ask
take the burden away
and leave me with a lesser load,
one that doesn’t break my back
or bend me for all time,
or even for a day.

If it’s not too much to ask
let me stand straight, straight
as a tree I would have cut down,
straight as a post I would have scoffed at
as an imposter and tried
to push aside.

Even as it resisted me
I would have sneered at it.
Even as it stood immobile
I would have stood aside
saying, “I’ll come back
for you later.”

If it’s not too much to ask,
let there be a later. Let there be
a time to come back and this time
let me hug the resistant tree,
let me grow close to the wood.
If I can bind myself to it I shall

with these words: nothing shall hold us.
Nothing but tears on my part
and slow growth on the tree’s part.
We two will stand, we two will grow
until the day comes
to cut us down.

what was the rule
that kept him going
long after wind had relented
long after it stopped

what was the time
he ignored and decided not to reply
between hours or minutes —
seconds it took to act then be gone

what was the honor
he crippled by refusing
what did he think he was
a worthwhile mind in service to a slave

instead he chose to honor
a lifetime’s regression to his moment
in the sun or a shady moment
in someone else’s sun

behind it lay peace
behind lay forgetting
his own lapse toward forgetful
a shrugging off then a release

Spread your arms wide.
Take it in, all of it. Open yourself
up to closing suddenly, even unexpectedly.

Then remove the doubt
you came with — yes,
even that doubt which kept you
closed to possibility. You lived
without it, after all; you gave up
hope, wonder both dark and wild-lit,
even fear — even fear,
that precursor to all else;
fear, the wide-eyed amazement.
You let it go.

You gave up so much
that you are afraid
of what will replace it.

You find yourself
having forgotten your name,
immersed deep in the indigo ocean
off a coast you don’t recognize;
it’s a night built upon stars.
Your boat’s getting away from you
and you are miles above the bottom.
You wouldn’t know the bottom if it rose
to greet you, and yet
there must be something down there
to shape this, to hold this.

You have forgotten your name…what a relief!
What ferocious joy is this now?
Who do you dare to become?

This isn’t the end. Only
a new origin, an ecstasy
foaming, fresh in the vast sea;
you are open to it
reforming and refashioning
above inky darkness.

You were born to this.

Will now the body down
until it breaks or
shatters with cosmic force
on the sidewalk.

Hold the mind intact until it happens then
let go the last participant
until it is parked and perfect
and there is little to say.

Sit there. Stabilize until the world ends
like a neighbor. Tell
it to people — tell them
an explosion doesn’t matter,

that it doesn’t matter how many die. But it does,
it does.  It is of utmost importance.
It stops mattering the moment
the last victim dies:

you see how peace comes to the face,
how it relaxes. You see
how it begins to manifest in the earth
and sky, are struck by it. 

You unwind, let it go.
Whatever cataclysm follows, you let it go
on and on.  It’s not yours to follow.
You were its engine — no more. Let go.

Let go and let God take it. You 
were always reluctant. Now let God
do its part. Whatever you end up
calling it.  However it answers.