The lie
emptied itself
with a hiss.
It lay between you
as snaky and harmless
as a shed skin,
though it reminded you both
of poison
hiding somewhere nearby.
Neither of you
wanted to speak of it
but that papery husk
was so obvious
it drew your eyes
away from each other
into corners
and under the bed.
You each spoke
a while longer, hoping
no sting would surprise you,
no venom would rise
into your lungs and surge
forth at the other,
and while you managed
to get through the fear
and move on
you knew you’d be listening
and watching for it
for long bitter days and weeks
to come.

He opens the scissors
and begins to cut

the details which matter to him
(the origin of the journey,
the car, the mirror loose
on the driver’s door)

from those he has no need for
(the way the air felt like fur
when she held her hand
out the window as they drove,
her need to stop and pee
every fifty miles or so)

then stitches the parts
into a cloak, a story
fitted to what he believes
and to hell with what really
took place (long periods
of absolutely nothing, no talk,
mutual simmering)

since now that he’s done
her perspective is just scraps
on the floor of the motel room

where
he ended up alone
with no one to tell him
that the cloak looks unfinished
and doesn’t fit all that well.

a stumbling father
trying to be a savior
falls behind his daughter
as she rolls away
down the slope

stones at the bottom are avoided
as much by chance
as by control
and at the bottom
both rise laughing through tears
and forget the previous hazards
move onto the next ordinary thing

each moment on each of our paths
seems precious and set
when examined in hindsight —
such lies we tell ourselves —

did you know that moon
would give so much light
on the night you were willing
to step away from the fight
and turn your back on threat
feeling that if death
came grinning after you
you’d be good with that

and that light kept the killer
from pursuing the battle
he turned and put away
the knife
you did not die
and now
you look back
and say yes it was ordained
that this was how you would come
to find peace

fool

peace is a deceiver
it comes as it comes
no respecter of zazen
or prayer
is shuffling monk of nature
nurture
timing
and pure luck

random is
all

predestined is
nothing

acceptance is
peace

Woke smelling
fried eggs in a pan
but discovered it was just
my brain on drugs

Pissed me off
I was hungry

Woke thinking
I heard a superball
bouncing crazy in the room
but it was just
my brain on drugs

Pissed me off
I wanted to play

My brain on drugs
fucks me up and over
but without the drugs
I’m left with just my brain
and that’s worse

like the night
I woke up
hearing nothing at all
no sound
not even my breathing
It was as if
I’d stopped being
as if I’d been dead
for a very long time

then I discovered

that was my brain
not on drugs
I was hearing

and so I took some drugs
and
almost immediately
I was right back
where I belonged

it’s a mysterious grain of sand
in your shoe one day
coming home from work

it’s the resultant blister
water leaking onto your sock
skin coming off
in your hand

you have to walk slowly now

you hear whispers
on every corner

they don’t care if you know
because you’re not important
and it’s gone too far to stop

everyone’s in on it

they aren’t covering up something that’s already happened
it’s an operation in progress

you’ve bent one slat on the living room blind
because you watch the street all the time
every truck and skateboard a lure to the window

it’s secret squirrel stuff
and you’re wounded
and one step behind

but you know
they know you know
you know they know you know

you’re buying a gun
off the grid
you’re stocking up on ramen
and peanut butter
you’re not talking to anyone for very long

you suspect you’re part of it

it’s not all that bad
to be so aware of your surroundings
that you can hear
codes in the crickets
saying
the key to all this
when you find it
will have to be turned
in a lock you haven’t found either

everyone is talking about it
and your bleeding foot
you’re leaving a lot of tracks
it’s a race against time
and you’re slowing down

hurry

Is the man who learns from swallowed stones less a learned man
than he who sits up and begs for easy knowledge
dispensed like treats to a trick dog, taking in whatever is offered
regardless of effort expended or potential for poisoning?
At least the stone eater knows how his teeth will crack
as he chews the hard lessons and struggle them down.
At least if he is cut by his own broken teeth
he knows the pain is immediate and if it scars him
he will have the scars to remind him of what he learned.

Is the woman who climbs the sheer wall of her prison
less a climber than the one who rides a proffered elevator
or ladder, giving up a piece of herself to gain escape
and then to walk the world with a piece of herself left behind?
At least the climber who attempts to summit the prison wall
owns the chance of falling and shattering, and if
she is broken into shards they will lie close together
in the landing, no need to search for what’s been lost there;
if she succeeds with her ragged nails still on her hands
she will always know what she can do once they grow back.

If we fail and fail again, struggling with every fall,
standing up on telescoped legs, swallowing our own blood
raised to our mouths by biting through our own tongues
in an effort to stop repeating the wrong words again;

if we stagger, if we stumble, if to be ourselves we try on
mask after mask to see what fits and then finally with irritation
toss the false face into a battered can and call out
that we will face the world now without disguise,

will we be less worthy of love and honor
than those who smiled, nodded, bent their backs as directed
to bear the traditional loads of straw and brick —
those who did not understand and turned and sneered at us
and gave us the backs of their heads in response to our cries
for help in a time of need?  Or will we spit stones at them
from the tops of their walls?  Will we then teach them to live
as we were taught to live, or will we say
we understand so much they do not know that a lifetime
is not enough time for the learning, and turn our backs on them
to build anew?

by loving that tree
on my wall

the tree outside the window
becomes a metaphor

the metaphor
becomes a conviction

the conviction
becomes a prejudice

the prejudice
becomes a work of art

the work of art
becomes a metaphor

the metaphor
becomes a moving target

the moving target
becomes a religion

the religion
becomes a bloodsport

the bloodsport
becomes a conviction

the conviction
becomes a cause

the cause becomes a tree
outside the window

the window framing
a religion

that has become a cause for bloodsport
aimed at moving targets

a work of art
made from a prejudice

and grown from roots of arsenic
and love

Tags: poetry, poems, meditations