“I look at you,” he told me, “and I think to myself; now here’s a guy whose got it all: he’s over fed, has a nice watch on his wrist and his shoes, although not my style, are brand new. The only thing he doesn’t have are troubles and worries.”

“bartender,” I shouted, “I’ll take one more and the tab.”

“hey man what about me,” he asked, “mind topping me off?”

“and another one for the poor sap next to me.”

“you see what I mean,” he continued. “you can afford to buy drinks for yourself and for others. as for myself, they forced me into a war I didn’t support and I also got my *** shot off for a cause unknown. I was stripped of my emotions, gutted from my life, they sodomized my psyche, carved the dream out of my head and I was never given a chance at having children or a future. and all this happened before I ever held a beer or tasted a cigarette or had a woman in my bed.”

I didn’t bother responding
in hopes that he’d get the hint
but as expected, he was as
clueless as my ex-wife
and as he carried on
with relentless persistency
each word dug in like a cat scratch
and all I could do was clench my glass tighter and tighter to contain myself.

“I’ve been spit on, kicked out, beat up and let down,” he further continued. “the streets are hard and unkind and everywhere you go you’re unwanted and everything is locked. why do you think I pour into these bars late at night? to drink? naw man, I just need a place to go, a roof over my head you know?”

that was it.
I had enough.

I finished my drink,
got off the stool
and headed toward the exit.

“hey buddy,” he shouted, “can I get another one for the road?”

“no.”

“just one more?”

“NO!” I screamed.

“c’mon man, you’ve got everything and I’ve got nothing. what makes you better than anyone else?”

“now look here you bumbling idiot…”

“but…but…but…” he interrupted.

“I’ve heard your tales of woe and now you’re going to listen to me,” I said sternly. “I look overfed because of poor diet and lack of exercise caused by working 60-80 hours a week with no time to take care of myself. I have a nice watch and new shoes but it came with a price. I’ve traded in my freedom for comfort, my time for materials and any chance of love for success. you say I have everything and you have nothing? I say you’re wrong. you’ve got something I no longer possess and that my friend is soul. don’t lose that. don’t buy into the mold. don’t conform. don’t become like everyone else. most of the people you see in here have imprisoned themselves into their own personal hell. that’s the way society wants it. but you’re free. truly free. and another thing… don’t worry about sorrow. everyone’s got problems and nobody wants to hear about it. why do you think people are in here? for the enjoyment? no, there here to forget. just. like. you.”

“******* *******! I don’t need a lecture from you or your cheap advice. all I need is a ******* drink!”

…and with that,
I walked out into the
dark and empty streets
where they greeted me
with their silence.

What is grief if not living in the liminal space between mourning and coping, a shadowed threshold where life meets death in quiet conversation?

I stand on this fragile edge, where the heart quivers like a candle’s wane in the whispering dark, a realm where memories and absence, like twin spectres, waltz in the soft gloom of yesterday and the uncertain light of morrow. Every heartbeat echoes a silence weighed by loss, each breath a tentative bridge between sorrow and the subtle pulse of hope.

Here, in the interstice of emotion, time becomes fluid, a slow, deliberate current that carries moments of despair and fragments of longing, merging into an arras of unspoken truths. In this space, mourning is not an end but a sacred state, a hallowed pause that shapes the contours of coping; each tear, a drop of ink on the parchment of the soul, writing verses of resilience on the margins of our existence.

The twilight of grief, that delicate pause between dusk and night, between what once was and what might be, nurtures a silent alchemy: the transformation of raw hurt into a quiet strength, a whispered promise that from the depths of loss, a new knowing can emerge. We are all suspended, adrift on the cusp of knowing, our spirit marked by both absence and the faint shimmer of renewal.

In this liminal expanse, life, and death converse in the language of echoes and gentle reclamation, and grief, ever mysterious, ever patient, reigns as the unseen artist painting our scars with the hues of compassion. It is the sacred territory where mourning softens into acceptance, and the raw edges of yesterday’s pain create a fertile soil for the blossoming of tomorrow’s hope.

What is grief, if not this delicate passage, a continuous, unfolding dance with mortality where every sorrow holds the seed of a future embrace, every quiet tear a step towards a new dawn?

a dog pees on a tree,
so what, that’s average.

a baby has spaghetti
around its mouth,
pfft, that’s basic.

a woman living below you
beats on the ceiling with
a broomstick and tells
you to “keep it down!”
big deal, that’s common.

pulling your member
out of your pants and
stroking it violently
with excitement,

hey, that’s just everyday living.

but, seeing you sitting there
on that park bench,
one leg crossed over the other,
with your dog
and your book
and your sunglasses
while tears of joy stream
down your face
after something you
just read

well now…

you
don’t
see
that
everyday.

Going off the handle?
Better to say, gone?
Broke the neck off the bottle,
When you were just trying to
Get the cork off?
Perhaps you twisted too hard,
Slow down & be gentle.
Love isn't a race,
It's a marathon.

A rhyme heard from when he was younger,
For there was a love perverted for the Greeks & Romans.
There was more, but I won't go on.

You said you would **** it this morning.
Do not **** it. It startles me still,
The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing

Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill.
It is something to own a pheasant,
Or just to be visited at all.

I am not mystical: it isn't
As if I thought it had a spirit.
It is simply in its element.

That gives it a kingliness, a right.
The print of its big foot last winter,
The trail-track, on the snow in our court

The wonder of it, in that pallor,
Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling.
Is it its rareness, then? It is rare.

But a dozen would be worth having,
A hundred, on that hill-green and red,
Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing!

It is such a good shape, so vivid.
It's a little cornucopia.
It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud,

Settles in the elm, and is easy.
It was sunning in the narcissi.
I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.

The ground is veined with sorrow’s trace,
Each crack a line time dared to write.
The grass—a ghost of greener days—
Now bends in grief, withdrawn from light.

The building stands in breathless hush,
Its lungs are filled with mold and spores.
Each wall a canvas time has brushed,
Each bruise a tale behind closed doors.

The windows blink with uneven eyes,
Some wide with hope, some shut in fear.
They do not guard, they do not guide—
They choose who may draw near.

The doors lean in like weary men,
Too tired to trust, too hurt to mend.
They’ve learned to greet the wind alone,
Unhinged by hands that should defend.

The swing is still—a cradle’s ghost,
A joy once carved in child's laugh.
Now silent, still, it mourns the loss
Of someone who won’t wander back.

The water waits in mirrored dread,
Reflecting all it dared to keep.
One touch, and it would spill its heart—
To break is easier than to weep.

Who did this? Who let beauty spoil?
Who priced it down to rust and dust?
“They cost too much,” the verdict read—
And so they left it, robbed of trust.

But this, this ruin breathes a truth—
It lacks not soul, but song and name.
It doesn’t need a coat of paint,
It needs someone to call it flame.

For listen close beneath decay:
A heart still knocks within the frame.
But friend—
This is not about the building.

What's the real moral of the story?
Why was Odysseus sent on that journey?
Like the horse which was used,
Like the dog he let die.
He hid his face
And led those he cared for astray.
Like men who ****** in the night,
Shapeless forces cursed them
Yet, light did not betray their sight.

He may have been a leader,
But he was only the bravest coward.

When he returned home
Life had long moved on,
For he was scarcely recognized.
Such are the ways like of the soldier,
Not far from the warrior-
These lifestyles where peace is deprived.

Where one couple's love
Is the scandalous affair,
Where one couple's love
Is firmly consecrated.

Why these are such matters
To go to war & die for,
Why these are such matters
To go to battle & **** over;

They're well & truly not.

Individual rights are young,
But even so
They are ancient.
Older than the Kings & God(s)?

I don’t know how many knocks
I’ve had upon my door and
opened it to the sight of
some poor, ill-fated,
hapless crumb ***
standing there
with another
sob story:

“I got kicked out of my house
and I don’t know why.”

it was always the same thing
and yes, they put on quite
a show during their
initial screening
with their
spongy eyes
like ****** cakes
and as vulnerable as a
clay pigeon shot into space.

I’d buy into their dinosaur tears
and they knew I’d take them in
because I was an enabler.
I could never say no.

and next thing you know there was
bodies on the couch,
bodies in the bathtub,
bodies in the basement,
all drunk, drug-addled
and without women.

each time a new one entered the house
it always ran in the same sequence:
first, everything would
start off good, fun even;
they’d buy the beer,
I’d provide the music,
the music brought conversation,
the conversation brought laughter,
the laughter brought moments of joy
and the beer, the music, the conversation,
the laughter is what kept those nights alive.

many lively nights had passed.
gradually, they grew more
comfortable with settling in.
subtly, their courage piqued enough
to overstep some boundaries but not
enough to notice it or brush it off.

they were testing me.

seeing what they could get away with.

I was a pushover,
allowing myself
to get steamrolled
by their daringness.

then I noticed that none of them secured employment.
they’d pour their excuses all over me as to why
they couldn’t work or even pay me rent.

I imagined some interviewer
flipping through pages of their resumes
extending out a long rap sheet of various jobs
knowing they wouldn’t last long.

their twenty-four hour presence
thickened the tension in the house;
up and down the stairs
in and out of the front door
beer run after beer run
& continuous song writing.

I’d come home after the 12 hour shift
to beer cans preoccupying every
countertop and table in the place.

and just like that, I became both the
innkeeper and the house maid.

their incompetent and noise-laden identities
had troubled and angered my counterpart.
it wasn’t her fault though.
she had to put up with
my poor decision making:
I ran our home like a flophouse,
like a homeless shelter, like a charity ward,
like an adult foster care center.
I was inexcusably bad at playing landlord
and at subletting my house.

too much resentment had burst.
she’d curse me. we’d get into it.
the arguing would get out of hand.
then one of them would boldly step up
and say something robust and tumultuous,
interrupting our personal affairs,
as if it was their business,
as if they were now
running the show.

I’d let my emotions get the best of me and snap back at them.
boy, oh boy, did they have an answer for everything.
confrontations were never my strong suit and
winning an argue with these dolts seemed virtually impossible.
I had trouble saying what I really meant and what I really felt.
things never got resolved.

suddenly, it was starting to become abundantly clear;
as to why they couldn’t hold down a job,
as to why no one else would house them.

we’d return to our corners,
let some time blow over and
then reconvene at some later point.

burying the hatchet over a few suds,
only this time I was buying the beer
and they were taking over the music
and the conversations were awkward and dull.

the nights were quickly dying into a stale dankness
our eyes met in silence, there was no more laughter,
the room became uncomfortable, aloof, standoffish
no matter how much the beer and the music worked its charm.

the quality of our lives had gyrated into pure toxic sludge
we were pushed and pushed and pushed beyond our limits.
I was brought out of character; a reasonable man,
driven to do unreasonable things, I too, like so many
before me, had to kick them out of my house and they
hadn’t a clue as to why. they’d put up their fight,
they’d storm out with a dramatic exit and act
like I was losing something valuable.

oh yes, there was a time, when I believed it would be easier
to live in sheer misery over hurting someone else’s feelings.

I was too busy pulling knives out of everyone else’s back
that I didn’t realize how many were stuck in my own

but after many years of waiting it out,
I finally got the message
and had to pin
eviction notices
on the doors
of my beliefs
and on the doors
of the strays,
the rejected
and the runts
of the liter.