in that worst moment
I found out just how much
the human body
could bear

how much the
human mind could
understand

and how much
the human soul could
take

a wiser man
would not have been shocked
to witness it not only survive

but thrive

I realize now,
the futility of
forgiveness

we all want a clean slate,
the washing away of our sins,
but in the end:

we are never clean

you can paint over it,
or wear costumes,
or even spend millions
on special procedures

but it’s all just mask

we live with what’ve done,
each day, we must face the
man we used to be, and the
implications that man has
on the one we are now

(and that’s all that matters)

you can mix in new colors,
but never get rid of the old
ones

that is futility of forgiveness:

we cannot wash away the sins,
cannot wipe the slate clean,
the only solitude is forgetting,
and that, in itself, is flawed

(for the moment comes
when all those memories
come flooding back in)

but we carry on

forgetting or forgiving ourselves
(whatever seems better to you)
and trying to make ourselves
presentable

even with the
knowledge of our past
and future mistakes

the plane crashes.
silently.

people scream.
silently.

lives live their last moments.
silently.

drinks spill as panic spreads
eyes go wide, adrenaline pumps
the world falls apart
the shroud of reality
disappears into the void

silently.

everything collapses
the walls close in
faces transform with fear
the humanity drips away
madness consumes

silently.

I reach out to the man next to me
he does not see me, does not hear me,
I cannot hear myself either,
the world grows further away
as the gravity grows heavier
we have entered a different realm

silently.

the ocean nears
the moment closes
the last prayers are prayed
the last embraces made
the eye close, waiting
the mind finally accepts

silently.

the plane pulls up
silently.

people stop screaming
silently.

lives begin living once again.
sound returns.

death came to visit
today

and now he sits,
smoking a cigarette,
in a chair
on the other side
of the room

he did not say
why,
simply barging into
the room
saying

hey
hey man
how ya doing
care for a
smoke?

he didn’t say much
after that so I went
on with things

read a magazine,
paid some bills,
made a sandwich and
ate it

still he sat,
just smoking and
smoking,
occasionally
asking me:

you sure you don’t
want one man?

I was sure
and after the fourth
or fifth time he
asked me if I wanted
to go somewhere


“a little noise will do us
good man”

“this place is quiet as
death”

I realized slowly he didn’t
mean for us to return if we
left

as I write this
he’s still over

smoking and smoking
and smoking

I weigh my options
as the sun sets once
again

we each tried,
and some succeed,
but failure always
surrounded us and
tales of catastrophe
were always on our ears

and for a brief moment,
at the height of it, when
the fear almost made us
stop trying any more

and that was scariest
part of all.

there is a poem
I want
to write

but I am not sure what
it is about,
what it might
say,
or even
how it might
begin

but I know I want to write it
and I know that somehow
the rain will teach how

so I sit, door open
and listening, trying to
hear the message
the world is trying
to say

“a great tragedy has befallen
the young people of
this generation”

“they are so trite,
so supercilious,
so full of greed,
and now, now,
now”

“I miss the old days”

he said,
stressing each
syllable as if a thief
might steal them
away if he did not weigh
them down
enough

“when you were expected
to be something. have some
merit.”

“everybody had to earn
their living.”

“but now all we’ve got shiny,
plastic crap and chrome finished
phones that do everything for
you”

“what ever happened to wood
and steel and agonizing work?”

“I don’t I say”
with a shrug

“of course you don’t”

he said, like the millions
of other xenophobes so
afraid of the future they
aren't even aware of it

“you’re just one of
them”