in the bottoms
the lowest points
tesseract echos
of clicking jaws
clamping down
clacking shut
with voices
murmuring in between
the soft augur
exfoliating down
a sandpaper of teeth
garrote out
in such
kind supply
and velvet layers
fluttering through
so soft
this psyche
crash pad
a spiral
funneled down
or out?
dunno but
scribbly sounds
reverb around
greatful dead
demonic retiree
homely calling
there there
even evil
gives a break
just be
all ideas
struggle to
swim so
float a spell

under a waxing July moon
dripping with corona
hung in a clear night sky
i sit with my father’s ashes
tilting a glass up
of bottom shelf scotch
looking up
at the brown bats
flying broad circles in the air

like cogs, they spin
forever counterclockwise
in each another small life
snapped up and consumed
each cycle no doubt
filling their bellies
instincts fulfilled
catharsis for the moment
at least

among the dulled chirps
of functionally infinite crickets
near cacophony
a gentle but fierce flash
drawn from our chiropterological studies
on instinct
i turn rapidly to the plastic black box
that contains the remainder
of my dad
still defensive
despite the doneness of time’s deeds

bioluminescent chartreuse
warmly highlights what remains
a firefly, seeking respite
from the night’s work
of high stakes family planning
joins us for a moment
looking down, i join him too
with an embering spliff
drawing at his pace
least i could do, right?
our radiant rhythm
giving just enough light
for a single shard of bone
to gleam

we watch
as dusk drapes itself
across the horizon
crescent moon emanating ominously
lunar rays casting down
and one by one new gleams appear
we see the bats as well
me, new friend, and dad,
witness to the minute lights
of the fireflies, dancing
looking for purpose in a
brief brief window
one vanishing, in silence
with every arc of the bats
who continued their work
with admirable precision

but okay, i can feel you thinking about it
still on the ashes thing
its okay, i get it. fair enough.
my father, he died in June
you know the story
consumed alive by life
a juggernaut we all know
in the lungs
probably elsewhere too
decades of smoke congealed
of subterranean quality scotch scorched
old habits are hard to break
no, it wasn’t easy
yes, it was bad
for months, i was at his bedside
read him his final rites
looked him in the eyes
as he went
and i have to tell you
the light never left
i watched the whole time

possibly ironically
he had hung
on our fridge
since i was small thing
a Dylan Thomas poem
c’mon, you know the one.
rage, rage, and all
do not go gentle into that good night
blah blah blah
very apropos here, no?
i read and reread it
must have been a dozen times
in the moments after he rattled his last
it was half buried
under a few coupons
and a tavern menu
as i pulled it out
so too came
a dozen appointment reminders
magnets of polarized teeth
wrenches
and otherwise nondescript squares cascading
to the linoleum floor
also forgotten, unearthed
sorry, i’m off track
this isn’t the point

as we sit here
we happy few
watching nature
under the night sky
i think about that poem
i think about my father
i think about his scotch i'm drinking
i think about the fireflies and the bats
did he? do they? will i?
i hear nothing as they go
miracles of the universe that they are
making their own light in the darkest of places
they are just. gone.
one by one
following instinct
consumed by inevitable things
flying silently in the night
following instinct
one by one
seems pretty gentle to me

then again, dad didn't
i heard a lot as he went
i heard every groan as i lifted him
to and from the transport chair
dozens of times
back and forth
body betraying him
in simple but
vicious ways
vagus nerve, lying ***** that it is
i heard him as i cleaned him
when i told him i loved him
at night when he spoke to
the terrible magnificent dreams of the dying
i heard him
but it didn’t sound like rage.
no lightning forked there.
it was relegation.
rumination.
respite.

my father is dead, yes. but this isn’t about him.
maybe it was, in June. but it is July
he is already gone. and he is still here.
right next to me, under this starlit sky
watching the twinkling dancers in the yard
flicker, flicker – then out
dashed dreams of love and life
snuffed out in a moment
the bats, ever round and round
one by one
doing their best to survive too
to make it another night
to another circle
another cycle
they spin until nothing is left
cogs turning
great machine of life moving
beautiful for a moment
then done

we are no different
we three
now two
our small friend heading off
to work
to life and love
then death
dad, well. he was just ahead of schedule
spun to his own pace, sure
but like a dervish he went
vorpal speed delighting
daring
devastating
until that last good night
green irises still glimmering
though his body grew cold
no tears to curse, bless me now
just luminance, vestiges of thought
in eyes i realize remind me
of my firefly friend,
now likely former

i consider this
the reality of my father
his final form, immolated
at my side
i ponder how i can learn
from his example
his life
how i can survive
thrive
while I finish his rotgut
and my waning smoke
swearing to live differently
habits dying hard
watching the fireflies flash
the bats circle
everything in its harrowingly right place
under a waxing July moon

it
now. it asserts itself. makes itself known. rises from a vague landscape where,
starts slow.
what seems like moments ago, there was only tanned and tender skin.
first, a trickle of
we know its not fair, of course we do, how life
a thing, drip drip dripping
insists on malicious amalgamation of the blameless bright beautiful but
slipshod slipping in and out of
leaves us. we drift aimlessly, searching equally so for
schisms in the essence of a being.
a point. no signal, just noise. like static
like an idea in the back of your head,
but meta. we cut a crashing hiss
scritch scratching around, abound for parts afar and away
through days they never got to
chitter chattering all day, grabbing your tongue, taking your say.
taste. we try to hurry
then, just like that idea, there it stays. festering and flayed,
nowhere, without you. our
invisibly inviable too. just like you. i hate it but it's true.
attempt at
as we mourn the arrival of another morning, alas, it becomes less metaphorical,
growing.

i lost it

there was a thread here once
i had it
just here
between the tips of my fingers

i lost it though

cursed, i tell ya.
they say about me, in some circles

eyes hidden under indistinctly specific
iconography of ships past their prime
grumbled under half gagged swallows
of whatever passed for palatable ***** past
those
discerning lips
or, perhaps, poorly applied mascara
downturned eyes, downtrodden
but their feet?
find purchase on my back
when you look like this
what else are you for?

and sure, about the curse thing
they were half right
which is a stupid turn of phrase
isn't it?
half right is just

******* wrong
rights aren't piece-meal thoughts
they were, in fact, wrong
But

somehow right enough.
black eyes put a dark period on that
(do you even know my name?)
the universe is a strange place
what can i say?

but we digress


cursed was the vibe tho
an idea carried through
some three or so decades
to now

our dying father fishing
for breath in the dusty light of morning
the sun, weimar conductor that it is,
demanding awareness for the passage of time
“are you still not ready for the day in there? tsk tsk”
he’s thinking it

probably. and that’s not all
because of-*******-course would we
get sick the day we get back
bb death riding shotgun
the very help we brought
to show appreciation
to the rock
that kept us from sinking
eons ago
now a threat to his life
cursed, i tell ya

or stupid. leave that for another day
but today, we flit to and fro
pathos ponging pitifully
a small white pixel
but capable, of self criticism
of despair
bound uselessly
in cognitive dissonance
intensely considerate
ironically exposed
through gentle spritz of lysol
and heavy sighs
each wrenching open the wound anew

and we knew curses too
don't get me wrong
this is no fresh hell
we know but do we learn?
now that’s a good question

for someone to ask
someday
when we are ash, i hope
for now, we wait
breath bated
afraid to take too much of the air left

how much is left, I wonder
we think on that
for a while

we wait
for nothing
for meaning
while he fades

i had a point once
something sharp and poignant
but it’s gone now
i lost it
we lost it

that thread cast out
cascading across my
fingertips
we lost it
away it went
a taut twang as it did
and, yeah, we all lose
all the threads
will slip
this is true
yet
no one tells you
once released
it is
not lost
just






gone

dark & light dance left
horizon a glacial crawl
spectrum shifting sable

watched closely enough
she was as an old TV,
diode warm, alive

and yet, undead too.
not gone but going. she knew.
her silent song set

a winking line of
signal, weeping out her last
lacrimal notes now

waves rushing to shore
sounded bent, for a moment
wobbling, unmoored

i heard the hum of
a **** turning, clicking to
off. electrical

bubble burst. picture
crushed into that same long line,
like an eye mid-blink
but never
blunk