To dam the river’s flow
he sat in empty rooms
without books, TV, or radio
staring at silent walls.

Drove two lane
country roads
searching for
slow moving trucks
to get stuck behind.

Went to the bank
and the grocery store
at the busiest times
to spend hours
waiting in line.

Passed the time
with people he itched
to get away from,
and married a woman
he despised.

One day he peeked
behind the dam
to find that his reservoir
had evaporated
and a parched landscape
of cracked earth remained.

He knelt and grasped
a clump of dried mud,
held it up,
staring openmouthed
as it crumbled
in his hand.

Now when I look at you,
I see your roses
untended,
burning in the sun,
petals falling to the ground
withered and brown.

The sun is my co-conspirator
and I cast no shadow
as we watch them burn.

I do not smile,
but nor will I spill
a drop of water
or even spit
on their thorny stems.

As though etched
on a tablet of stone,
this image persists,
and I have no hammer
to smash it to bits.

A political meme is posted,
it enters my brain
through my eyes
as I skeptically squint
and grimace
and even groan
when the ******* bell
goes ding-ding-ding!

If the pile is big enough,
and stinks badly enough,
I break out my shovel...

After a bit of digging,
I post my nuanced reply
complete with links
debunking yet another
specious assertion
or one dimensional caricature.

I smile, imagining
how dazzled they will all be
by my obvious insight
and wisdom!

Then I sit, and wait,
as crickets chirp
across thousands of miles
of fiber optic cables

and my friend list
shrinks...

Remember...
when you meet,
and you’re sitting
at a little table with her,
chatting and laughing,
making eyes over martini glasses
or coffee cups,
and she starts talking
about “the others”,
what they did,
what she did,
and you’re telling yourself
whatever it is
you’re telling yourself...
as you chew on her story,
swallowing parts of it,
hiding others
under your tongue.

Remember:
you ARE
one of
“The Others.”

Taste that
on your tongue
for awhile.
Try not to choke.

Most days I believe
I have fooled them well enough,
even while I stumble
through my lines,
and the body language
feels forced and off cue.

Though there are moments
that their eyes
flash mirrors of doubt my way,
like white hot spotlights.

Then I return home,
catch a glimpse of myself
in my car window,
and see my dayworn disguise
running down my visage
in pale streaks.

I go inside,
lock the door,
close the blinds,
and wash my face
in the bathroom sink,
staring at myself
in the mirror.

And as I scrub away
the vanilla mask,
every nerve sighs.

Sometimes I wish you would
just....go....away,
and leave me
like a zombie,
an automaton,
or a herd animal
grazing in the field,
unconcerned about
brewing storms,
impending droughts,
or slaughter.

But no...

The voice
is not mine.
Can’t be.
It’s as though
my brain sprouted
a chattering mouth
of its own.

I’d like to glue your
******* lips shut
when you remind me,
again,
of how I really blew it
with that woman,
and that one...
and all the bridges
I’ve reduced to ash,
marooned now
on this rocky island.

And how future paths
will resemble past ones,
dead end disasters
littered with scraps
of twisted humanity.

By the way,
(you whisper)
that itchy mole
between your shoulder blades
that you can’t reach?
Melanoma.
Those dizzy spells.
A stroke.
It’s coming...

Please *******,
so I can enjoy
a half hour of solitude
sitting in the sun,
or even just taste
a single bite
of my sandwich.

But then,
come back to me,
when I need you...
like now,
and help me write this ****.

I don’t understand
why sometimes
I run and hide
in motel rooms
with women and bottles.

Or why the sound of laughter
makes me cringe,
or why my head throbs
listening to small talk.

Or why I dream
of sitting on telephone wires
or crawling through dark tunnels
with no light on the other side.

Or hug the ground
feeling with fingertips
for the birth pangs
of a mountain
on the Earth’s dark side.

Or listen to the static
between radio stations
listening for the music
in the white noise.

Or look for tomorrow’s cliches
among the mad scrawls
of yesterday’s castaways.

Or leave good women and jobs
because I cannot breathe,
only to run off
and hold my breath
somewhere else.

I hate this restlessness,
but isn’t that
what life is?

The restless itch
of the cosmos
******* itself,
and we the blood flowing
from the fingernail marks
on its back.