No vulture can circle widely enough,
no worm can open her gullet enough,
no fly can buzz to the target and feed swiftly enough,
no gravedigger has a shovel large enough

to dig the grave that needs digging
for the hulk that lies dying here.
No hearse large enough to carry it away
to a better cemetary,

no undertaker skilled enough to empty it
or make it up to seem plastic alive
(though it often looked that way in life,
seeing it now confirms that those days have passed.)

One hope to avoid the poisoning sure to come
from its breaking down and leaching out:
that we who are watching it die will at the proper moment
set the giant bonfire needed to cleanse the earth where it lies.

There is no story behind
this broken arm
Nothing explains it

If I name one more damage
with no story to explain it
you will begin one

so instead I say
rise, finality, next,
no connections

loser wagon 
condensation
anxiety chalkboard

If I offer one more non sequitur
you will make a story of them
thus destroying them

so instead I say
Ha Ha Ha
instead I say Eh

we try to make a world from
separate things
though the world is already one thing

if I laugh again
you will make a routine of this
and then a theory for it

though no understanding’s
needed for what is
randomly being here

enough, ha ha ha
to know we don’t know
or should be so

they see you ready to end it all, hopeless, etc.
so your friends start to speak in cliches.
they tell you how dark the night,
how cold the ground.  tie a knot, hang on, etc. 

understand that this is the lingua franca
of those encountering despair.
it’s the only language they have in common
with each other when faced with you.

they will comfort each other
in this same language, reciting to each other
what they said to you, once you are gone,
once they feel satisfied you can no longer hear.

don’t respond as you’d wish.  don’t let them know
they aren’t really your friends now.
they need you to make themselves
feel better. you are of value.  take comfort in that.

instead, ask them: ok, how am I supposed
to tie the savior knot when I will have to let go
of the rope to do it? and, what if dawn
brings me before a firing squad? 

watch them wiggle, hear them squeal.  it won’t be fun to see
but how else will they learn that
their silent presence cools fire,
and stop trying so hard to talk you out of the frying pan?

Let’s burn a guitar
for the honor of those
who’ve died among us
and made us sing 
in their wake.

Let’s pretend
to reggae, let’s
assume the position
of blues;

though we’re lying sacks
of middle-class shit
when we do that
tonight
our dead friends have signed
the permission slip
for those journeys, so

under that whiter than white moon
let’s light a fire
and coax last songs out of
a broken, rackety-rick pawnshop axe,
singing

Sloop John B,
Statesboro Blues,
Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?

then listening to the flames 
in the snapping strings
as the poor old thing
disappears in the smoke,

just as we will later disappear
into the dark
around a fading fire. 

It is impossible to say 
everything out loud today
in our accustomed way.

In the church we offer eulogy,
homily, the rites,
all the orations of grief;

but at the graveside behind the formal speech
we offer each other a butterfly language,
floating and whispering, unlipped and tongueless.

In that we tell of life and death
without a word, understand and
are understood without knowing how it happens.

Go home, we say to each other
in this formless tongue.  Go home 
and be at peace

in the day to day
now that we have laid him to rest;
he has no more need of us. Remember

how this began and ended
when you think of him, remember 
what lay between those gates — 

who he was, who we were
with him, who we are without him;
we keep it, and he’s beyond it.  Don’t rely

on the priests for an explanation;
we understand this
in our deep animal being.

It’s why we use the butterfly language
to speak of it and not
the rough pulse of speech.  It is older,

smarter, tighter,
better on the breath,
lighter in the ear.  It heals.

Underneath
what you see of me,
what you think you see
but can’t imagine, really:
the Big Anger, much of that drawn
from what you don’t see. 

Underneath 
what you see:
hard to describe, really; let’s
manifest it this way — 
I’m a chain smoking demon
sitting out a rain delay
in a ballpark where
I can’t light up.

Underneath 
what you see,
what you can’t see but
maybe you can hear:  let’s go,
batter up, America’s Game,
batter up.  Let me take 
a swing if you’re not ready — 
and man, are you not ready.

If your wind starts rustling
through trees —
end it.  Cut the wind off.

If at any time you feel compelled to speak
of your soul, if you feel it stirring, joining, seeking
its mate — end it.  Cut the soul free. It’s damn tired
of doing those things and it will embrace you for this.

What else?  Skip dusk, skip dawn.
If you can’t get down with
two in the afternoon, or three fifty-six AM —

please, end it.  Stop.  Cut the clock free.
Nothing wants to do this same old same old
forever, except for your genitals

and even they get bored occasionally…
so, workshop it all right out.  Bash
a cliche in the head till it blooms.  Skip
eyes, crystalline, waves, skin, moist — 

give us instead conveyor belt, chatter,
soapy, saw blade, match heads,
horse tooth, chipper, mess, orchestral.

Listen: we need you.  Be you. 
Only you are standing where you are. 
What’s it look like,
sound like there? 

You can start by realizing
that none of the above
is about how to write a poem.

Went to borrow
skin from Johnny —
back soon. Call if you need
anything — will be going by
the Louvre on the way home so…

~~~~~~~~

Have the kids the dog and dragon
Back by 3
Left something black in the fridge for you
Better than it looks! 
love

~~~~~~~~~

Did you pay the ferryman?
He called twice

~~~~~~~~~

Had to run to the ice pack
Forgot the reason why —
hope to remember
before I get there
Don’t wait up

~~~~~~~~~

Don’t open the cellar door!
Will explain when I get home
Remember I love ya

~~~~~~~~~

Peaches
We needed peaches
That’s right, peaches

~~~~~~~~~

I left 40,000 dollars for you
under the eaves of the old shed

I spoke kindly of you to Them
I hope it is enough

We aren’t likely to see each other again
for a long time

You would be best served by
forgetting me

as I shall forget you
I promise

It is morning, someone says,
though I could tell that by myself.

My first thought is of the landscape
near the closest football stadium.

My second is of a scrap of paper.
Upon it these words: “your prime

is seven.” My next thought is of
an esoteric cabal of crushingly

huge men chanting prime numbers
as they thunder across the world,

because this early I’m primarily an engine
for cobbling together random things.

It is morning, someone says,
though it’s obvious to me.

My next thought is that I ought
to sit up in bed and see how I feel.

My first action is to sit up in bed
and see how I feel.  I’m still lightly

furred and a little clammy, drier
in some areas than others,

afraid of social media, angry without
cause, desperately in love.  

It is morning, I am saying it clearly now,
I am the new carrier of the disjointed day,

next up in the relay.  My first true action
upon others is coming soon.  It will be

angry or loving or based in fear — wait:
it will be angry and loving and based in fear.  

Don’t be afraid — it won’t be large.
It will not assume the guise of a linebacker.

It is morning, my leaping little thoughts cry.
Count to seven, push aside the covers.  Get up.

The world needs me.  People like me
are the sand grains outside the oyster:

we are many, we all have pearl potential,
some become random irritants, but most likely

we’ll just be the bed upon which
beauty happens, mostly without us.

It is morning, someone says. 
Get up, dreamer. Make yourself useful

or at least practical. Useful
will be a stretch at best.

Early
and hardly up
with the light and
the clatter of the  
cat beating on the blind
to try and see outside.
Birds, squirrels, then someone
starting a loud car — must be
the red van two doors down,
know that rattle and growl
by heart by now, it has taken
all spring to get this loud
and now it’s distinctive as
any robin’s liquid call.
I don’t blame the cat
for being a cat when it’s
this busy this early.
She’s trying to tell me
some creature surely
ought to care
about the bustle,
it’s too much for dawn
to contain, and 
who can say
what will fall apart
if such vibrancy
goes on unnoticed?
She has a point, 
so I feed her.  
As she eats,
collar clinking
on the plate,
I sit by the window —
she’s right, oh
how right.
 
 

Start by giving until
you are hollow.
Hollow is the given
here, the expectation.
You’ll soon be empty
if there’s any good 
in you to give.

Speak as spoken to
and be heard as well;
love it as you are loved,
or oppose it and be
ignored, despised,
or shunned.

(If you are already
the Other,
a role will be
chosen for you.)

As for full membership
and its privileges: of course
it’s open to all
and not hard to achieve —
the hurdles are few and low.
Start anytime.
We will let you know
when you’re finished.

We will let you know.

We’ll let you know.

I promise, we’ll let you know.