When I look up, I see the debates,
all of them. The news anchors
debate the commentators debate
the experts. The commoner debates
the elitist. A renegade doctor
debates an angry mother. My neighbors
don’t seem to debate but
their bumper stickers do it for them:
judo, Yoda, skateboarding,
all saying yes you can
while others say no you can’t;
the argument carries out across
the perfectly mowed yard. And I
debate everything — my partner,
my doctor, the shop clerks, the
car guy tire guy oil guy — they
seem to need it —

still, I come out at morning
and look at the last dim stars,
hear birds (one at a time
then two and then three and finally
more than that) and notice a car
heading by for work; he waves
and I wave back; it seems quiet,
naturally so, and in agreement with that
I close my eyes and pretend
that it will always be so.

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

I rose at eight o’clock
and found myself in the text
of work. Praise then
to the body that held me fast
until I had completed
that which I set out to do

and thus armored myself
against the assaults of
nine, of ten, of this day
approaching me as if I
had become a target; praise then
to that body which buckled down

and remembered how the Work
counted and how it held me steady
and kept my pulse low in the face
of the challenges of the day:
the rich men, their lackeys,
their children, even

their children’s children —
I ceased care for them, their
sneers, their eventual disdain;
instead, I bent to the keyboard again.
It’s eight AM. This is time to work.
No time left to play, to mourn. Enough.

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

I don’t want to talk about it
but there is a man in the White House
who does,
who talks about it
in the abstract,
who describes it as
big and beautiful;
who wouldn’t know beauty if it bit him
in the flabby ass;
who shouldn’t be mocked for his appearance
because his mind is as shaky,
shakier more than his body;
who opens up often
and lets it fall out of him
like rubella, like pestilence,
like any of a number of plagues;

I don’t want to talk about it
because I am frightened
of those neighbors of mine
who speak of
running away from his words;
who look to the forest
or some other place to hide;
who just
turn the TV off or turn
the radio off or
their ears off
when the White House speaks;
who just
can’t hear him,
can’t stand him,
who act like
mythical ostriches
in the face of his words;

I don’t want to talk about it
because of neighbors
who silently agree with him;
who feel
in their ulcers
that he is right;
who look
with evil suspicion
on neighbors of all sorts;
who settle
with satisfaction
on so little of the world;

I don’t want to talk about it
because
in the shadow of the fat man
in the White House
there are men armed to the teeth
and they seek me and
sneer at me and my ilk;
in the shadow of the White Man
in the House
there are reasons upon reasons
to fear me,
to fear us,
to fear what we might choose to do;
in the White Shadow
of the dark man in his White House
the orders
have long been clear:

clear and clean
this land;
if butchery is required,
let it come to pass.

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

Tough, he said. Turn a sad eye
to the ones hurt, sure,
but then move on to
the joy of others over
the things they have done, or
will do, when their time comes.

I would do as he asks
but for the wetness of one child’s cheek.
I would gladly turn my face
toward the living but for
the dead lying alone on the street
where I live.

And when I turn from the misery
toward the joy,
I see it now: they are connected.
The dead on the street would not
be there if someone had turned
toward them before with a raging grin —

so it is not enough, say the dead,
that you feel us thronging around
you, that you dry the eyes
and cheek of the sobbing child;
so I brush off my hands, settle into joy —
I walk up to joy and seize it:

throttle it down, down to the
filth on the road; I wait until
it stops moving. I look back at
the One who spoke earlier and
gently smile; I turn my back on his sputter
and go on my way in balance.

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

Let there be light,
let there be groceries,
let there be justice,
let there be gas
to fill the car.
Let there be love,
let there be calm
in the neighborhood,
let there be peace,
let there be lights
on the posts on the street
to shine on our way home.

Is it too much to ask
of our complacent, teetering world
for there to be simple things
that keep us safely
from work to home and perhaps
a night out once in a while?
Is it permitted to ask
of a damaged, still lovely land
that we are allowed out to see
an unbroken promise of peace —
or let it be broken, browbeaten,
yet still intact enough to guard?

Let there be ghosts,
let there be spirits,
let there be benevolent wraiths
to watch us as if we were whole.
Let there be lovers,
let there be flags
of war or of binding,
let us have a truth in words
that aligns with
how deeply we yearn.

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

First, there was an explosion;
after that, a cloud of smoke
lifted over the site.

Afterward, two people
thought of lying
about what they had done.

It was an afternoon
on a Wednesday. Overcast, grey
and rainy now and then.

The one man looked
at the other and then
they walked off, separately.

The cooling air cleared
as throngs milled around
the cone of smoke.

Once again: there was a fire,
a burst of smoke, and two men
walking away from all of it.

In the silence after that?
Birds; rain spotty on the pavement,
sky crying over the spot.

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

It is easy for me to say
I forgot the rules
and began going to protests
just to watch
I forgot the rules
that said not to follow along
and don’t get involved
It’s easy for me to stay home
and pretend it doesn’t matter
whether or not I go
as long as someone does
and they
the unshaken they
the implacable they
just let me be
It is easy for me to say
that Buddha would agree with me
that Jesus would agree
Allah would give me a high five
The old gods would nod
their shaggy heads
and if I chose atheism
I’d nod my own
Serenely disdaining violence
no matter if it comes or remains
abstract
It is easy for me to say
I can’t be bothered
Let the young care about it
I will be dead soon enough
I would rather die peacefully
I would rather die in my bed
Old and unconcerned
At peace with it
At peace with corruption and scandal
and endless war
and the fat senile bitter man at the top
of a host of smaller smug men and women
Let them do their worst
I will be dead by then
It is easy for me to say
that I do not care for them in fact
I loathe them like lice on a clean body
A clean body like the one I hope is mine
upon death
It is easy for me
to look upon them and say
enough talk
for I have been saying the easy things
for so long I do believe
that no one will listen
unless I shut up
unless I pick up
a gun or a stone or a sign
and let free my fire
with a shrug
with a defiant uncaring for consequences
and
without saying a word again
without saying a word

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

There was a wall of faces
Like a clothesline
stretched between folks
standing faceless like old trees
Their bodies were strewn
like old jeans upon it
Their faces went taut then loose
Stretched out and then
collapsed
All of them had been singing
then screaming
All of them had forgotten
how love worked and justice
delayed looked about
par for the course
After all they were just words

Don’t give them the time of day
Just relax and let the time of day
go taut then slack
and you will be left standing
taut then loose
billowing out like a sail
then falling slack
like old jeans
You’ll be one too
A pair of old jeans
waiting to be tossed
The shore is hungry for you
The television awaits you
The radio awaits you with
music like a shroud on a frayed line
going taut then loose
You bury your face in it
because this is what you are
now as the wind quickens
then fails

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

1.
Give me space
a figure shouts to black
and guerrilla clothed guards

so they give
the space
of a bullet

No time like the present
All time on a dead watch
All space in a corrupt file

2.
Give me space
cries a figure
outside the continuum

Bureaucrats turn their heads away
slightly ashamed but
not enough to let the figure go

Frankly they are bored
It gets old being omnipotent
So tired

3.
Give me space
you plead from a place
of bewilderment

Watching this country
(whatever you call it)
falling on its serene knees

Some folks laugh it off
over cute cyberdogs fawning
while sneering at the rest

4.
Give me space
comes an answer from
a fat man at the top

Fuck it you get what
you deserve and boy howdy
do you deserve me

Plastered on the banners
I had hanged with
one name of the beast

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

for breakfast I ate
two pieces of toast
with butter and
two cups of coffee and
it was good

mid-morning I ate
two more slices of toast
with chunky peanut butter
and raspberry jam and another
cup of coffee and
it was good

during meals I paid little mind to
white terrorists
outside on the street or
sneering faceless people
on the Web or
those who spit indifference
while driving through all of this
faux shambolic energy
pointed in its chaos
toward me

I ate no lunch
it was good
had a low-calorie chocolate bar
mid-afternoon
it was good
had a few sliced baked potatoes
with garlic and butter
for dinner and
it was good

up again early today
I may have toast again
with butter or
I may make an egg over easy or
I will have nothing at all but
it will be good

it will have to be

as a shadow passes
food freezes on my fork
breaks my teeth
it has to be
a shadow stops at my door
points a fat finger at me
laughs its own toothiness
it has to be
a shadow opens its mouth
wide wide wide
to swallow me still struggling
it has to be

as I will struggle before going down

that is the way it was planned
by Another
who knew me well at heart
amid the breakfasts and suppers
the wounded brain
the aging bones and muscles
the failing spirit
it will speak to me and say

it will have to be good
it must be good
it shall be
good

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