Perceiving them, we know
there is a sinister purpose to them.
Our upbringing prepared us
that way.

But it’s wrong, we have learned
to say. We have learned
not to trust such things, to step back
and say,

not for us, not for me. Then
we learn to befriend them
at a respectful distance,
hold them at the length

of a tree’s branches, rope
attached, swinging low. We
recoil at the image,
still sickly embrace it;

but it’s crap, it’s shit
we are taught to say;
we still bring it to mind
every time we are able,

each time we can. We hang
our heads instead. We drape
ourselves on the bodies
and hang with them,

always sure we can slip off
and walk away, wiping our hands
with their forgotten clothes,
looking for other good deeds to do.

It’s crap, it’s shit, it’s doo-doo;
it ought to be outlawed
(but it is, you do know). We hang
our own heads for a moment,

go home to see it on TV.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Calculating
the time it takes for
a damaged man to speak up.
The time it takes for
a crowd to flash into anger.
The time it takes for
ersatz, fantasized rockstars
to turn back to beginners
and humble themselves
before us,
to begin to fall back.

Calculating —
five days of thunder, ten of soaking rain;
days beyond number
of thirst and suffering, of
dancing clumsy on the edge
of a serrated knife;
days of heat inside your clothes
and fighting a crazed need to strip;
you fear the response from
hungry men, starved women
waiting to devour you, to shelter you
even as they take you in.

Calculating
the equation — you plus
others who feel the same,
who will die for the fire this time;
you divided by nothing except
bullets and sneers;
you subtracted only to be
added back as you are consumed
and multiplied into a million,
two million, ten million;
more.

How many days have you waited
for this?

How many days will you continue
to wait?

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

I was born to this

as if I was responsible for it;
as if it mattered that I knew it
like a brother, like a child
might know it.

I was born to this;

it mattered to it
just a little, just a bit;
it had its own corrupt life to live
and I was only a glancing blow.

I was born to this

and energy I lent to it
did not reflect upon me,
did not slip over me like a stole
and drape itself on my shoulders.

I was born to this

as a countryman, a citizen
of its lineage, and it sneered at me
and left me stranded in its wake
as it plowed forward over all.

I was born to this;

I fell for it; I learned
so much of it that I died
to anything else that might have
accepted me more readily.

I was born to this

and I cut myself free of it
and cut it off of me like
an unnecessary limb and felt
incomplete, butchered;

I bled red blood of my father
and red blood of my mother
and my own red blood filled the streams
and lakes of the land I was born to

until all around me was crimson
and I lay in the red of it and dreamed
it would wash out at some distant point
in a future I could not see;

I was born to this

and it took me until now
to turn and see myself in opposition
to it, to its corruption and filth;
to turn and say no more;

to take my leftover life up
like a rucksack
and set out on the road
to another place.

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

At home I wring out
my hands, my head.

I wring them out flat and
dry them crispy afterward.

My hands you may understand
but why my head, you ask?

I have to dry my head
to keep the tears from being seen.

I have to dry my head
to keep the flies off the pools of sweat.

Little must anyone know
of what my head has become.

I need to keep the maggots off.
My hands don’t matter so much, of course.

Everyone’s got maggots on their hands
these days, what with all the casual death.

With all the casual need to pick up
the bodies from the street.

With all the nonchalance
with which we try to keep things tidy.

The people choose how they want things to look.
I know it doesn’t matter that much.

But my head they have to look at.
My eyes are on fire and focused.

My head needs to be seen for one brief shot.
They need to be shaken up, out of the stupor.

Out of the chill of the still damp hands.
Into the fever of the freedom-knowing brain.

So I wring my head out until it’s paper dry
and ready to be set ablaze.

I will be gone then.
Maybe they will follow me in flames.

Flames of red, white, blue.
Flames that burn down this — this thing.

I won’t be here to see it.
But someone will. Someone certainly will.

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

One two three,
ONE two three —
one, two, three…

cannot escape
the rhythm — one,
two, three…

Close my eyes:
still there. Even though
I am tired of it.

Even though I know
there are others,
myriad others;

one two three
ONE two three —
all in my stomach

till I’m starving
for more — march time,
a two step —

all I get is a cursed march;
one two three ONE
two three —

almost a forced step,
almost a procession
armed to the teeth,

soldiers all of them.
All of them — did I mention
marchers, paraders,

people in timed cadence
walking toward an edge?
One, two, three, ONE

two three — they are mostly
not me, not anyone I
consciously know

except through suspicion.
I detect the march where
there isn’t one or perhaps

there is? One two three
ONE two three. Close
my eyes and see them

marching, lock step
toward the edge of things.
Toward the place of

fires. One two three,
ONE two three — world
goes along, trees

sway along — is there
a war worth marching to
or not? We are

the unwitting butchers
set to chop and we
don’t even know,

as long as we do it
in concert with others
and can do it quietly

enough — in cadence,
in step — one two three
ONE two three…

and in silence, I
march along; unknowing,
I march along;

hard butcher, unwilling;
in lock step but marching
desperately; one two three

ONE two three…

————-
onward,
T

Inefficient is the only word
I can come up with to describe it;

troubled, redoubled are the lonely words
I must use to call it forth.

Those don’t work well, either.
I’m lost in a mess between them.

If another word works to carry it forward,
let me know soon because

in the plot of things only barely known
I am having difficulty sorting the world out

from right and wrong, true
and false. You know words don’t work

like they used to do. You know
all meaning is suspect. Mostly

I live on feeling, sighing at the vision
brought to me by words

and left on my doorstep,
waiting for me to pick it up,

put it on like a stole or a robe.
I could be king if I did —

that would mean little
to anyone. Instead I live

breathlessly, un-forming
the nature of words like

beauty, freedom, and peace.
They don’t mean that much —

namely everything worthwhile,
large, and endless. Every second there

could be the One. Every feeling
could be the last one I ever feel.

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

I wake up slowly
thinking,
I might like to shoot
the President today;

then I rethink it
and think about everyone else
I’d need to shoot
to make wishes come true.

I’m so tired
anyway, waiting
for the hibiscus
to bloom, waiting for

dead fires to start
among the dead wood
below me. This is why
I awaken so slowly:

there is so much to do
and I do so little anyway.
So I have learned to sleep
with one eye open

waiting for my clear shot,
for a day to clear and offer peace
to the waking mind, to pray
against hope for grace.

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

So the lower river came to flood stage
The river rose until it could find no more banks
And then it spilled over into our streets
It drowned cars, dogs, homes
And the people upstream from us
Did not care that we were broken and wet
Did not care that we were hungry and cold
Did not care that we were dying

So the lower river came beyond its limits
The upper river stood by and shook its head
As it poured out upon us unthinking of our grief
The upper river masses shook their unthinking heads
They did not care about anger or grief
They did not care that we felt alone and chilled through
They did not care about how we bent down for rocks
To throw at them when we came to it at last

So the upper river changed its mind about us
As the lower river rose in a raging red tide
As we fell upon them with nothing to lose
As we rose toward them in a storm of bodies
They fell to our boulders upon the earth underneath
They rose in the daytime and cowered at night
And the air rejoiced as the water receded
And they had fallen below the line and had drowned

They had drowned unthinking with us up above
Left us alone with our thoughts and the grief
Of sharing the world with the dead until we joined them
Of sharing the world with our own dying

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