I apply myself,
more or less daily, to cleaning
the floor of the house where I live.
I still apply myself to my pills,
taking my pressure, popping my
finger daily to read the blood
and then writing it down, carefully,
in a book I keep for that purpose only.
Play one guitar or another, daily.
Wash dishes, frequently, daily;
leave one load overnight, almost daily.
Try to eat something during every day.
I sleep daily, like a clock. Almost daily.
Same time each night. Piss frequently,
three times daily; shit once or twice a week,
when I feel the need, which is less often
than daily. You ask, when do I write?
Amidst the daily chores
I find the time to sit for hours and hours
and try, but it is so damn hard
to do — maybe in the next life
when the floor is spotless and I am
out of pills and the guitar
has ceased to be a struggle
I will find the time and the will,
but don’t ask me again — I am trying
to shut down, waiting to shut down.

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

Cleveland, Columbus,
Davenport, Grand Rapids;
all these Midwestern towns
on a paper map and
I won’t get to any of them
before I die.

I say that
with finality. Say it
with conviction. A sense,
perhaps, of longing
or mistaken confidence —
or perhaps it’s just peace
that I’ve made with a shrinking circle
of where I go,
of where I can go?

Midwestern towns
are mysterious because
they aren’t; Midwestern cities
look the same as the ones
on either coast.

I don’t need
to go to Midwestern cities to know
that at some point I’d find myself
sitting in a hotel named the same
as the last one I stayed in.
There I would seize my fear,
roll it into
a small uneven ball,
toss it without thought into
my throat, feel it burning
all the way down
until I fell asleep.

Davenport, Cleveland,
Grand Rapids, Columbus.

These Midwestern cities
hold me hostage
and I’ve honestly never spent time
in any of them except
in my guts where I imagine them
as looking the same
all over their skin.

If I could? I would sit in their churches,
sing the formal parts of their services,
crush my head into their crevices;
I’d go eat in their diners, their restaurants,
choke down
their foods;

do my best to hold it together,
do my best to not break down.

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

Every time I open up a day
in silence — washing dishes

or entering thoughts in a diary —
I am shut down by a song

whenever something catches my ear
and seizes hold; an unusually strong bass

incessantly repeated
until I can shut it off

and move on unbothered
by it at the least; at the best

it is gone for good
though it will come back

on occasion, whenever I let
my guard down. I try not to,

but I do. I have lost so many
thoughts and random items

to a bass buzz now, coming up
unbidden, haunting me

like some legend from a past
I learned about elsewhere

and seized on it — yes, that’s it,
I hear it speaking to me —

except no one else
hears it but me

and I close my eyes
and try not to speak of it —

I try to move along
but it insists that I hear it,

that I listen even if
I say nothing to it or about it;

it is a snake’s hiss after all
and I am powerless to make it cease.

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

In days
of whirlwind

I am swept up
carried along

into what follows
I do not know what it is

I know enough
to understand I will be taken

to a strange land
filled with answers

and that is a tale
I will be too timid

to tell completely
or well

This is a fragment
of that story

and this should be
enough

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

when I sleep until six am
or thereabouts
I am oblivious
to changes happening
in this earth’s shadow or
in bright corners
which change from one
to another without warning
saddened as they become
dark with rain
or tenderly pleased as they
turn snow whitened and
then I am indeed surprised if
I am not
staggered in my bed
by them until I rise
and dull myself to plodding
through my routine
but instead
sit quiet and still with a cup of
good coffee and look
marveling
out the window

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

onward,
T

An old song, this one
sounds like it belongs to
a time before this one,
refers to things
under this one, in fact
offers dirt on shovels
and deep wells
from getting it out, holes
in the earth itself.

The women singing it
are covered in blue soil,
are soft to the touch, will
disappear upon touch;
are they one with the dirt?

They finish. One lights
a cigarette taken
from a crumpled pack.
One leans on the other —
just another pair weary
after work.

In the pines a stone grows,
becomes a tree, a universe,
and the earth under the tree
stops moving with the world
that holds it.

A sound engineer
adjusts something, tweaks
a dial; for a moment
there is only one sound;
no one dares to move.

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