Maybe I’d be happier
if I believed in something
currently absent
but said to be returning:

Jesus, or America. Maybe
that tug of hope,
forlorn as it might be,
could pull me up.

It is fall, aiming to become
winter soon enough. Then
it will be spring. I don’t need
to believe in that — it’s not

a myth but a fact. Jesus, though; well,
Jesus ain’t spring. As for that other,
it hasn’t earned my belief.
I won’t spend it on such grief

as it has given me. Some think
Jesus and America are one and the same.
I hope for my sake that’s untrue.
I find the devil more credible. 

I know you are shocked. I wish
I was able to believe in your hope.
I know some good people who do.
I’m just not one. I’ve seen things

they haven’t, been seeing them
for over five centuries now.
It’s hard to forget that
and succumb to hope. 

Maybe I should just wait,
depend on spring to pick me up.
If I was sure I’d get there,
I think I could hang on. 

Till then, I’ll listen to you
sing your songs of Christmas
and watch you put your hands
over your hearts. See,

I have learned: regardless
of how much you hope, how much
you want to believe, you must always
keep an eye on where the hands are.

Car radio news
is filled with black rocks
flying through space,
struck from hard places
on this hard planet,
becoming flame
wherever they land,
spreading fire.

Car radio news has taught me
and I have learned
and forgotten
and had to relearn
too many times
that all lives 
are made of coal.
Anyone anywhere 
will easily flare
and then be consumed
if touched by fire.

Car radio news?
Just turn it off,
someone says. Why not listen
to music? Old music
we danced to as kids:
water on embers.
New music feels too much 
like rocks ablaze
above our heads, coming in fast
to strike us,
we who are heaps of coal.

Because, I say.
Because we are already on fire
and nostalgia offers no blanket
large enough to smother it.

Because, I say.
Because we should never forget that
everywhere is a hard place
waiting to be struck and 
fling its black rocks into space.
Anywhere is a landing zone.
Anywhere can burn.
Everywhere is always ready to burn.
Everyone can burn.

But for you I’ll change the station
for now as we drive. For you I’ll find
something made long ago,
something made to play
by a fireside.  We can pretend
for a little while.

Come in, friend,
to this humble camp;
I will serve you
the national drink
of my people in honor
of you, my guest.
If you have one of your own
and you have one with you
you may drink up if you
have any with you —
should you share some
with me, I would be
most grateful; if you do not,
then drink freely of mine.

Sit down, be comfortable!
These lovely blankets 
I’ve piled upon the floor
in this corner make a fine cushion.
I received them in trade
for something — oh, I can’t recall
now what I gave up in exchange
for these. So much I’ve traded
for comfort — but you, 
you sit. We can talk more
of such things in due time.

Tell me something
about yourself — your language,
your children. Tell me something
about your lands — your customs,
your children. The gold you are wearing,
your customs, your curious thoughts
of God, your gold.

I will tell you of mine
after we eat.

You’ve brought food, I see.
This is good of you; I must confess
we are hungry here, but do not fear for us.
That is not your concern — we 
have always been hungry. Perhaps
we could have some of yours, just until
we learn more of what is here 
and what can come from this land — 
what grows well, where the water
flows freely, what game is
plentiful, how much things 
cost. How much gold
you need to survive, how much 
you have. How much
do you have? 

I see you’ve suddenly
grown silent, wary,
staring into darkness.

Please don’t mind that shadow
behind me, moving
in ways you say you’ve not seen.
That is always there. We sprout them
from our backs at birth. 

You say you don’t have one?
You’ve never seen such a thing?  

Oh, we all have them.
I’m sure you have your own.
I can help you find yours.

In fact, I insist. 

A guest in my doorway
asking if it is safe
to come inside
and stay for a while.

I tell them it has never
felt safe in here, certainly
no safer than it is
out there. 

Are you sure, 
I ask? Are you sure?
Out there you can at least
run. In here

there’s nowhere to run
if what’s out there
decides to enter by force,
and I have proven 

to be terrible 
at homeland defense. 
Also, my judgment
is terrible. I’m not saying

more than that,
not saying
I do not trust
my guests, but…

The guest
raises a hand and
looks at me, hard,
as I am raising my own:

am I pushing them back?
Inviting them in?
Friendship, warning,
both? Each of us hesitates

while the world continues
to end. The question
remains: where is there ever
such safety as we desire

that flight or fight can leave our minds
for a second and we know
a raised hand will always be
a gesture of peace?

hunters senators and
this year’s pickleballers

that’s who runs this joint — 
well-armed killers happy to kill

lawyers rich and fat with
self importance and

fad-obsessed sporty types
who won’t be on these courts 

next year 
they might be just lovely people

or they might be shits
but no one’s ever gonna know

for sure
once they move on to whatever’s next

Cutting from one point of view
to another, heaving aside
opinions in favor of other opinions…
where are your eagle, your raven,
your dove now, old friend?
All anyone can hear in this twilight
is an owl and it sounds like your name,
your butchered name being called.
This is how you get lost:
you give up every familiar being
in favor of a ghost call. You chase
hooting into darkness thinking
it’s an anthem and there will be a home
wherever you meet them but
all that’s there
is pine needled earth and a hole lined
with a flag to wrap around you for a shroud.
A flood is coming. Jump in
and save yourself. Maybe this time,
maybe in this vulture time,
water will not seek its lowest level.

Fed up
with poverty,

too hungry
to fight.

Question
of the day

is how to
get full,

how to 
mix it up,

how to raise
a fist 

when you are
too feeble

to make one
yourself? 

You get someone
to give you a bite

of something,
anything really, 

and then 
take your hand,

fold the fingers in,
close the thumb over,

and with great care
help you

put it in the air.
They stand behind you

and hold you up
even as your knees shake

and you think
you cannot go on.

To move from fed up
to fed, you must first see

that you
cannot do it alone.

As it was back 
when we were young, 
but now we see it;

as it was back
when we were blind,
but now we feel it;

this town’s got a few citizens
and a lot of inhabitants.
Very few ever cross over

from just sleeping here
and mowing the lawn
to being here and present.

This is how it has been
all the time we have been in this place.
People let the town happen

and hang the consequences
unless they are direct and personal.
That’s how the whole country happens,

in fact: in spite of, not because. 
So little is intentional.
It’s a town doing town things

in a country 
which has slipped into
something more comfortable,

as it was back
when we were blind to it,
but now we feel it prodding 

something sharp into 
our backs. As it was back
when we were young,

before we could see
how few ever think of this town
as home for anyone unlike them. 

Once villains die
someone reframes their portraits,
puts them in something plain,
then rehangs them in a gallery
named “The Innocent.”

The old gallery is painted
then refilled.  
It is renamed 
“No One Alive.”

Every few minutes
someone comes along
and wipes up
the blood on the floor below
all the portraits
in all the galleries.
Everything is 
spotless.

Meanwhile some kid
is dying in a village or a slum
and the mother is wondering
who to blame, or even if there is
blame to be assigned.