drive a knife into my hand
and I couldn’t tell you
if the blade
was sharp or dull,

if the pain hurt
or just sat there
existing,

if you should stop
or just go ahead
and try
again.

look into my eyes
and I couldn’t tell you
if I was looking back.

my mind is drowning
(nearly blacked-out now)
and everything’s deafened
(both the good and the
bad).

I can’t see and
I can’t hear and
for all I know that hand
you just stabbed could be mine
or yours or someone else’s
entirely.

please,
wake me up.
the knife didn’t work.

there they go
there we go
little bits of ourselves
little bits of our lives
on down the hill
towards another place
but they remember
the bigger selves they come from
the souls who love and care for them
we remember,
they, remember,
we see them go on down the hill
they see only our waving hands
we, aware of what this is,
they, feeling it without knowing
just what it is

then they are gone
on down the hill
little bits of ourselves
lost but not forgotten
they are gone
all of them
and we are left
with only
ourselves

as I turn back to the theatre
seeing my shadow across on the wall
it seems so much bigger than myself
I seem so much bigger than myself
and turning back, I am blinded,
by the world so bright for once

the electricity shoots through your brain
the boom blasts through your body
the gentle fall of the water brings you
back

the lightning
the thunder
the rain

the men shivering and cold
the men lost as home seems further and further away
the men are you and I

crack
boom
shush

the lightning
the thunder
and
the rain

I’m surprised

I did more
then I thought
I would

I took a hike,
saw a show,
threw a party,
did something bad,
did something for
the last time,
and
certainly thought
of at least fifty
more things to do
once I’m better

I never kissed her though,
which is a shame,
because that I was the one
things I really wanted
to do

guess that’s just the way
the world is, just the way
things are

nothing is perfect,
but then again,
why must it
be?

I write, now, only of
exhaustion and anger

no more is there love
or adventure or
hunger
or thirst
or solutions
or questions
or even suffering

there is only
burn-out
and
further burn-out

I need much more than
a good soaking
this time

you know what?
**** it.

don’t worry about it.
don’t stop and think,
jump into your days with two feet!
if you’ve ever wanted to
you might as well
because really
the worst thing
that can happen?

you die?

so what?

if death takes nothing away
then it’s not really that bad,
is it?

so make life worth it!
play your songs as loud as they’ll go!
sing! dance! move! run!
take a chance! ask her out!
**** things up!
don’t worry!
never let anything
be boring
or
dull
or
pointless.

you are the master of your universe.
go out and make the most of it.

a gangly man
wearing thick rimmed glasses
that made his eyes seem
like those of a fish
wearily looking out
upon a world he cannot understand
read from crumpled piece of paper
the name of the next
person that had signed up
to take the stage

“Mr…
Youling?
is there,
a Mr.
Youling,
in the house?”

nobody answered
heads turned
looking to see if they could find him
but nobody knew who he was
and everybody knew he wasn’t
going

“ummm…
ok.”
the gangly man
said
“next up we have
David Proctor.
Please,
welcome him.”

David Proctor
got up
within moments

guitar in hand,
lyrics in head,
he played for us
some song about a girl
or his father or
something like
that

but in the second song
a man walked through the door
looking no different,
acting no different,
than any other
but he moved upon the stage
swift,
calm,
controlled

David Proctor
didn’t know what to do

the man
who had just waltzed in
went up to the microphone
and said

“ladies,
gentlemen,
how’re you
tonight?”

“My name is John,
what’s yours?
or are you afraid
of old Mr. Youling?
even if that’s not
my
name.”

“I said
good evening
ladies and
gentlemen!
good evening
and hello
to
you!”

“My name is John!
My name is John!
My name is John!
when are you going
to tell me
YOUR
name?”

I rose then
I don’t know why
I don’t how
but I did

my name is Caleb
I said

“Good good,
Caleb,
way to
be
bold!
Way to stand
up
in more ways
then
one!”

but I sat down then
remembering what I was
doing,
what was
happening.

John just stood there

“So tonight,
I’m going
to
read a
poem!
A poem,
people,
a poem!
Get excited!
Be amazed!
Don’t be so
pissy!”

“and the name of the poem
is
this”

“hello
hello
hello
the noise
of my voice
goes out
but not in!

hello
you people
old,
new,
and
forgetful
people
I say hello to you
but you never
say hello
back!

this
world is coming
to a stand-
still
because of
people
like
YOU

YOU
people
too afraid to appreciate,
to acknowledge,
to love,
to fear,
to say hello,
to say goodbye
to say that you’ve failed
to say that I’ve failed
failed to entertain
to amuse
to make you laugh
to make you think

but here’s the thing
YOU
I know I haven’t done
any
of
THAT

there YOU
are
sitting silently
glaring at me from behind
your
drinks
but
even as you hate me
you love me
for saying the things
you don’t even realize
you want to scream to the
hills

hello
hello
hello
people
YOU
people
who sit
there thinking about me
even as you try not
to

goodnight
goodnight
goodnight
YOU
I’ll see you
again
forever.”

but as he left
he stuck his head back in
and said,
like a punctuation mark,

“enjoy Mr. Proctor.”

and then I knew
he was gone

gone like an exhaled breath
and from that moment on
we could never breath quite
as easy

it is easy to forget
how to write or
how to love or
how to clip your nails or
play guitar or
pick out cereal or
enjoy a sunny afternoon

happiness unfolds for
so many like a miracle

the simplicity of it all
escapes them

I see myself
for the first time
looking into the mirror
that adorns the space
above my bathroom
counter-top
and up to
the ceiling

I look beautiful
yet
tragic

there in my boxers,
holding a bottle of
something in my
hand, and having
this look in my eyes
as if to say, “this
is all there is to
me”

although my stance,
and my face, and my
eyes, and fingers, and
toes all scream that I am
dying in my mind and
in my heart; my mouth
breaks apart and smiles
in a way that only the
purest of children know

what does that smile mean?

is it that small glimmer of
hope I have left, the tiny
light at the end of tunnel?

or is it my ignorance, my
stubborn will, my hard-
headed optimism that will
be bested in the end?

or is it just a smile, true and
pure, from looking at me in this
full-length mirror?

I am the colliding border of
the two storm fronts known
as logic and passion and to
make matters worse a twister
of sudden boredom has shot
up to make things all the more
difficult

I see myself in this mirror
stripped down to my under-
pants and yet I still can’t
see anything that’s really
inside

each day I must step up
to this mirror and look
into it

each day you will have
to step up too

in my mirror,
I see something beautiful
yet tragic,
in a way very few will ever
understand

in your mirror,
I do not know what you
see
but I hope you see some-
thing
and my hope is that you
can be happy with what
it is

what now,
we wonder, staring
up at the stars that both
inspire us and contain
us so

what do we with our
lives in the face of all
these eventualities

each day seems to
tell us we can’t go
on

so what now,
we wonder, staring
up at all the possibilities
we were promised

thinking quietly,
*******, how we were
cheated

it is the nature of dogs to sleep
it is the nature of rocks to crumble
it is the nature of the sky to be blue
it is the nature of the day to be long
it is the nature of the car to break down
it is the nature of the tree to grow upwards
it is the nature of hands to seek hands
it is the nature of birds to sing songs
it is the nature of hearts to beat
it is the nature of rivers to flow
it is the nature of roads to go onwards
it is the nature of suns to beat brows
it is the nature of worms to burrow
it is the nature of tops to turn
it is the nature of grass to be dew-covered
it is the nature of the earth to be hard
it is the nature of the siren to blare
it is the nature of the eyes to roam
it is the nature of the shelf to hold
it is the nature of hammer to build
it is the nature of a river to roar
it is the nature of a voice to whisper
it is the nature of the book to yellow
it is the nature of paper to burn
it is the nature of the blanket to warm
it is the nature of the arms to comfort
it is the nature of the family to challenge
it is the nature of the breakfast to fill
it is the nature of nations to bicker
it is the nature of floors to creak
it is the nature of gods to laugh
it is the nature of man to laugh too
it is the nature of the mind to wonder
it is the nature of the body to fear
it is the nature of life to consume
it is the nature of all else to oppose
us

we are all the **** of the earth

we are murderers and thieves
we are behemoths of waste; spoiled with desire
we spit on intelligence
forgo warning
think not
worry not
we consume always
we make gods out of bigots
and worship ourselves
we are the ****
the trash
the throw-outs
the refuge
yes, yes we are

we are what we like least,
what we need least

what will get us (in the end)

when the world finishes
when the curtain clothes
when we are swallowed

the hand behind the blade,
the assailant responsible,
our murderer,
our killer,
our horsemen,

will be us.

we step into the shoes
of a cowboy, down on-
to the dusty ground of
the plains, the revolver
strains against our side
and we feel but ignore
the sun

the town, like all towns,
is silent as we walk in,
one big foot in front of
the other, and when we
go into the saloon the
men playing cards fold,
the bartender puts down
his glass, and the ******
and other women turn
to look us up and down

and all we do is smile,
with our big broken
teeth, and they smile
too

we were the new kid
on the block, the last
hope for humanity, the
big man on town, and
we knew that things
were going to be ok
as we ordered a drink
and sat down with a
******* one side and
a fresh hand being
dealt on the table in
front of us

I am entering
that part of my life
where things
are things
are finally looking
up

not to say
that my challenges
are not greater
than ever

and not to say
I don't recognize
how important
this period
will be

but I am ready for this
I am ready for the schools
and the jobs and the women
and the ****-ups that will
inevitability happen.

I am will tackle them,
foolishly or not,
and, for the first time,
leave an imprint
on this
world.

squirming
in bed, like a child,
tickled with excitement
by opportunity,
the night before
the big day.

I’ve had a lot on
my mine lately

too much really
about too many
things

difficult,
unsolvable
questions

constantly vexing
me

sitting in my new chair
I wonder what I should
do

I get up,
take a ****,
and
come sit
back
down

it’s bit cold
and it’s Christmas
so I decide to go
find something
to eat and
leave
the questions
for another
sleep-less night

The no-more lives in Antarctic caves,
The cold, wet caverns
Of will-less stone corridors

The no-more lives alone and hungry,
Feeding on mushrooms
That bloom only occasionally

The no-more is found by so many people
Aimlessly wandering
In his cold, wet home in Antarctica

The no-more is happy when these people find him
He tells him his stories
And shares his rare and bland fungus

The no-more is met by the people who are stuck alone
But are truly in a crowd
And are finding the will to stop it all

The no-more, in its simplicity
Has inspired the power
To break the chains of their endless suffering

The no-more tells these strangers its call
“No More!”
And mimicking him, they set off to use it elsewhere

The no-more has watched these strangers for hundreds of years
Teaching them every time
“No more!”

The no-more, without realizing it,
has given them the tool to escape
and like good men they will escape
leaving the no-more to whimper it’s
cry:

no more

it’s is impossible
to comprehend the
difficulty to see
a reason in
anything

it is even more
impossible to go on
accepting that
their isn’t
any
reason

at all

my life has been a series
of encounters,
each one between me and
the truth that
I discovered much
too young
and,
truthfully,
wish I never had
at all

it is impossible
to escape that ghostly
truth

he is patient
he is smart
he is fast

and

he is right

(but I can still run
from him)

and I do run:

into women
into poetry
into the arts
into new locales
and exciting
venues

I run and hide
and hope

hope that truth will
leave me alone for-
ever

(but we all I know
he can’t do that)

eventually he’ll find me,
walk leisurely up, grab
the paper out of my hand,
look at it, laugh at a story,
and throw it the ground

then he’ll say it:

you’re going to die son

and nothing you ever do
is going to stop it,
and nothing you ever do
is going to last

you know as well as I do

this “life” thing is all a
sham

so come on, come with me,
I promise you the darkness
isn’t as bad as they say it
is

(but somehow I never take
him up on that option)

I always run

I always distract him
(just enough) and then
bolt

it’s all I can do
it’s all I’ll ever be
able to do

my life is just a series
of encounters with that
truth and his solution

trying not to believe him,
trying to defy myself

the day is winding down
the household says goodnight
the dogs and cats and mice and bugs find their nests
the people choose their beds

I look out the window
and the little clouds
that gather just before
the night takes control
look at me with rosy
cheeks and wide smile

behind that cheery face they talk to me
saying “goodnight, goodnight, goodnight
sleep well, we’ll see you tomorrow!”

I wave to them in shock
having never talked to
clouds before but I tell
them: “Goodnight to
you too”

They don’t talk any more
and just sit there smiling
with their big, rosy cheeks
as the day becomes the night
and the pink clouds go to
sleep without me

lying in bed
thinking,
wondering,
planning something
to make me happy
forever

had a good day
playing,
working,
planning something
to make me happy
forever

watching tv
observing,
contemplating,
planning something
to make me happy
forever

lying in bed,
thinking about my day,
wondering about the future,
planning to ask her,
something,
to make me happy
forever.

but until I do it,
that is,
well,
you know what,
I will not be happy
and I cannot sleep
because it’s not
that I’m unhappy,
it’s just I can be even happier
forever.

misunderstood
reinterpreted  
stereo-typed
re-processed
de-sensitized
de-humanized

left to waste on the shelves
of big-box stores for eternity

a skeleton looks
back in the mirror

I doubt being
a poet
all your life,
doing nothing other
than writing
and reading
and editing,
can make for very
good poetry

what does a poet know
about real life?

he sits in his room,
he types,
he listens to music,
drinks fine liquor,
gets angry at things,
or loves things instead,
but if all he does is

write

how does he know
what you do?

I don’t seek to be a
“professional poet”

in fact,
I’m afraid
of it

afraid,
that I could never be
“a poet”
if I were to become a
“professional”
one

I want to work,
and learn,
and see the
world,
and then write
about it

because that’s the world
you
(the reader)
know
and
the world
you
read my poetry
to find answers
for

so I stay away
from the world of
poetry

I scorn it
and
love it
at the same
time

and again,
I am both the center
and the outsider
of one of the few
things I love
in this world

my eyes like
storm-clouds
promising a rain
like you’ve
never seen
as I whisper
with my
words
that I love
you
and you
smile
as the rain
starts and we
kiss in the hollow
way we always
do

Ring-ring
Hear the bell? Understand
the meaning? Are you on
edge? Gotta move? Gotta
jet? Get where your going,
before the next one comes
round?

Ring-ring
The gates are open but
where does this go? You
don't know, you don't
care, but you know the
feeling of get up and go,
to run like a chicken with
its head cut off

The maze is our whole
life, our whole purpose,
everything we do

Ring-ring
ring-Ring

Your days are winding down
and your "friends" and "family"
and "teachers" and "employers"
and all the "people" who you
thought loved you is bearing
down,
telling you
"go, go, go"
when all you can think is
"no, no, no"

We are at the starting lines
of our dreams
(of our lives)

Ring-ring
A pistol goes off at birth
and we sprint away

Bodies litter the track
as you run faster, faster

Ring-ring
Times up

Ding
A different sound
Have you made it on the pedestal?

I'm in the stands
watching fools with ****** hands
and feet run in circles

Once
I was down with you
Thinking
"Go, go, go"
But realized
"No, no, no"
Where are we going?
To what end?
For what purpose?

I looked up from my dusty shoes
And saw the audience that had always encircled us
I saw old racers clamber up into the stands
And realized
"That's the where,

why waste my life trying to be recognized,
when I can just jump up
(in my youth)
and enjoy this
"prize"
without the
"effort"

Ring-ring
Hear the bell? Understand
the meaning? Are you on
edge? Gotta move? Gotta
jet? Get where your going,
before the next one comes
round?

Ring-ring
The gates are open but
where does this go? You
don't know, you don't
care, but you know the
feeling of get up and go,
to run like a chicken with
its head cut off

The maze is our whole
life, our whole purpose,
everything we do

Ring-ring
ring-Ring

Your days are winding down
and your "friends" and "family"
and "teachers" and "employers"
and all the "people" who you
thought loved you is bearing
down,
telling you
"go, go, go"
when all you can think is
"no, no, no"

We are at the starting lines
of our dreams
(of our lives)

Ring-ring
A pistol goes off at birth
and we sprint away

Bodies litter the track
as you run faster, faster

Ring-ring
Times up

Ding
A different sound
Have you made it on the pedestal?

I'm in the stands
watching fools with ****** hands
and feet run in circles

Once
I was down with you
Thinking
"Go, go, go"
But realized
"No, no, no"
Where are we going?
To what end?
For what purpose?

I looked up from my dusty shoes
And saw the audience that had always encircled us
I saw old racers clamber up into the stands
And realized
"That's the where,

why waste my life trying to be recognized,
when I can just jump up
(in my youth)
and enjoy this
"prize"
without the
"effort"

I asked the sun
where have you been?
because I needed you,
this last year,
when things got
so dark that I thought
that you were never
coming back.

then the sun
with a brilliant smile
and peaceful tone
asked of me
the very
same
question.

it’s hitting me,
exhaustion,
and my bed
calls to me in soft
whispers

with the skies
so grey
the trees still
bare
I wonder when
spring plans
to start

these are questions for dreams
and visions for nightmares
so what point is there to sleep?

too weary to answer
I close my eyes instead
and hope the monsters
decide I deserve rest
for once

from silent thunder
breeds thunderous
sound

the rain is following
like I feel it should

there was a day like this once

perhaps the most
important day of
my life

but that day is gone
and so is the feeling,
the happiness,
and the
memory

the rain was just
like this

I was just like
this

lost,
alone,
unsure

so there’s the rain

unforgiving,
unforgetting

to you,
my old friend,
I bid goodnight
and good
thanks

so for first time in a week

I woke,
went to the bathroom,
drank some water,
put on some clothes,
and walked out of the
room like a normal
person

to say this is a miracle
is doing an injustice to
the truly ill

but to say it is something
I am amazed at, well, that
is only the truth

it is funny
to know just what
all those dying
people in the
books and
on tv are talking
about when
they say:

“I can never imagine
being normal again”

the room seems different
somehow, but you know
it’s all the same

the world seems different
too, but I suppose it’s just
that you can be a part of it

I awoke today and forgot
what had happened to me
a week ago

and to say that one of the
most amazing moments of
my life was simply:

waking, peeing,
drinking, putting
on clothes, and
walking out the
same door I have
for seven years

well, that would just
be the truth

the road ahead
is one not often
followed

each step I take is original
each path I make is new

the road ahead
is dark with thunder-
heads

and sitting here
now
I grin with
anticipation

how many poems
began with the words
"I am"?

I am good
I am bad
I am misunderstood
I am steadfast
I am strong
I am wonderful
I am my best
I am better than you
I am not better than anyone
I am who I am
they write
over
and
over
again

so few poems tell us
the story of these good
and bad and other-wised
defined people

so often are we concerned
with getting them right we
forget who they really are:

fathers and grocery clerks,
jail-birds, school teachers,
drunks, priests, writers and
critics, hotel owners, bag-
stuffers, and not to mention
all the drivers of automobiles

these people
could all declare
that they are:

good/bad/strong/misunderstood/
steadfast/strong/wonderful/their
best/better than you/not better
than anyone/themselves

but until we see that they are
we have only their word and
centuries of ****** skepticism

he’s a hoax

a big phony

he can’t be trusted
and he’s *******
for fooling us
this long

he’s evil

he tricked us all

he told us he
loved us but he
can’t really
love can
he?

he’s too smart

he’s too conniving

he knew just what
we were looking for
and gave it us,
he played us like a
game of
chess

he knows it

he’s not stupid

he lives with the
guilt but he deserves
worse than that
for what he
did

he’s a liar

he’s a thief

he came in under
false pretenses and
stole everything he
could

he left

he just left

he couldn’t say anything
except that he couldn’t do
it anymore

he was honest

he was true

he left because
he cared what we
thought and
he knew
he wasn’t good
enough

he’s a hoax

a big phony

he thought he was
one of us

what sham
he was living,
trying to be someone
he wasn’t

(and succeeding
anyway)

in the thick of it all
love will always be the storm
that tears apart your houses
and drags your cities
back to sea.

no matter if you built levies
or walls ten hundred yards high,
the waters will hit hard enough
to flood the roads
and knock flat
the barriers

in the moment
when your tallest skyscraper
kneels down before the power
of the ocean, in all her grace,
you will always wonder
what could I have done
to forego this
destruction?

but when another storm comes
one that you could not see
one that you were truly
not prepared for
love will be your shelter

in ways that are both obvious
and mysterious all the same
she will come to you
in your moment
of final
prayer
and you will ask yourself
how else could I have diverted
this catastrophe?

after shutting for the final time
the next sight your eyes witness
will be singing birds and blue skies
and you will wonder how,
and eventually,
why?

this I cannot answer

perhaps this is love’s true poison
that she will not let you die
until she kills you herself
or perhaps
that is simply her price
or perhaps even
there is no reason
and love,
just as I,
know not why we do
the things we do
but we do them
with passion,
with commitment,
with love.

I dream of a shoreline,
endless, not silent
but quiet-

birds caw out on the ocean,
waves break as the sun sets,
salt smells rush into my brain
and for some reason I smile

this is what I dream of
a peaceful place
a simple place
constantly in motion
but never seeming
to change

too long I have been adrift
too long has my world
been tossed about

it is time to find that shore,
build a bungalow by the sea,
eat shellfish, walk to the market,
write poetry about nature,
and make love whenever the
mood strikes

it is time to be myself,
living along a tragically
impossible dream

it feels like years
but it was just
hours ago
when I finally let the flame
burning in the pit
of my soul
free for the first time
for all to see
and I screamed
for the first time
for all to hear

smoke billowed from my mouth
and as they
looked in and saw
my throat all scars and burns
they were horrified
and shocked
at how bad
I had let it get

they tried to put it out
but they couldn’t know
that it had been put out
for a long while now
that the black clouds were all a shadow
of what had once been an all-consuming fire
that burned silently behind my eyes
charring everything that passed through
them before I could ever even know
if it was beautiful or not

but this could have all happened
to someone else with the same burnings
that go unnoticed, unfelt by most
because that’s how I remember it
the man talking on the telephone
was not me
and the world I exposed myself to
was not her

so was the fire revealed?
is it still a pile of ash?
are the embers put out?
am I finally free?

I could not tell you
even if I listened
very, very
closely

ah childhood
the beginning of all humanity
and the motherhood of all thought

the wide eyes
on a smiling faces
missing teeth
but lacking shame
in that flaw
look out upon the world
and see only what is
without the haze
of arbitrary thought

each flower is just a flower
and if it is beautiful
it is beautiful
and if it is ugly
it is ugly

but if the flower is a ****
it is still a flower, ugly or beautiful.
and if the flower is a animal
it is still a flower, ugly or beautiful.

and the child accepts this
without a thought or lingering
doubt

the child looks out upon the world
and sees it

the trees and birds
the buildings and cars
the societies and peoples

they see it
and with a crayon in hand
they can recreate it
to the point where they are
satisfied

now can I do that?
no

if the trees are the wrong green
or the buildings not square or leaning
or the societies lopsided and unjust

I cannot stand for it!

but the child can

the child is pleased
only with the creation
not the quality or
quantity of it

and as they take their creation
on pieces of white nine and half
by eleven
they smile that wide smile
missing teeth
and they are truly happy
with what they have

they do not think of their missing teeth
they do not think of their miss-matched clothes
they do not think that their picture is best
they do not think of anything but happiness

that moment for them
is as blissful as one will
ever be

and the tragedy of it all
is that very few seem to
realize it

ah, childhood
looking back now we all remorse
and yet as we look on those who
have your gifts now, we all smile
and think

enjoy it kid
while things are
simple

the simplest
joy

is

unzipping your
shorts

spreading
out
your legs

and letting
out a warm, yellow
stream over a
cliff

in the end,
the person who knows
you best
is you

if that is not true
then something’s wrong

trying to be someone else?

you can’t do it
they know themselves best
and you’ll never be able to
match that

trying to be something different?

you can’t do it
because you’ll always feel
wrong, always want things
the way they were

trying to be yourself?

you can do it
you just can’t try

no one can
force you

no one can
make you
change

no one really
understands
but that
doesn’t mean
they won’t
try

in this world we die and live
just like we are born
(alone)

and all this can tell you why
the person who knows you
best
is
you,

only
you

it is the worst
moment
in a boy’s life, when
he sees,
for the first time, what
his father really
is

it is the moment,
that the boy becomes
a man

he must now replace
his father
he must now fool his

own son for so many
years
making him think
that his father is
god,
just as he had
thought

it is not for revenge
it is not for laughs
it is because it is what must be
done

a boy raised under a mere
man
will never become
one

humans have evolved
to see god in everything,
to make everything
better than they are

so that we’ll be afraid.
so that we’ll always
have our guard up.
so that we’ll think that
our weakest foe is our
most powerful enemy

it was needed,
for survival,
like all the other quirks
of this species
but it has changed,
evolved,
since then

it emerges when the son sees
his dad, his papa, his opa,
go from a being so much bigger
than anything else in the world
to being so much smaller than
even the dwarf that the son used
to be

it may be the fall
of the patriarch
that is the cause of all
this

but it is the offspring.
that suffers the
greatest
pain

I was asked today

"you're a senior,
right?"

no,
no,
no

I said
chuckling

"Wait,
really?"

yes,
yes,
yes

really.

I repeated,
glowing.


"well I'd never had
guessed,
the way you took
charge
and all
that."

I was silent

thanks

I said

"your welcome"

he said

and I stood there
in the afternoon
sun thinking about
the things I can do

it is the beat of rain on rooftops
the squeal of tires on tired roads
echoing of a cough in a church
the slamming of book on floor
calls of birds, and bugs, and dogs
pencils tapping messages in code

the tv turning on to a commercial
the phone hanging on the receiver
change rattling in a hobo’s can
a woman’s gasp at a man’s proposal

the silence of the forest
the quiet of child’s sleep
the hush of new snow
the words staring back

the beat of a tribesman’s old drum
the horns of a million city’s sewers
the strings of the reeds and oceans
the vocals of a world without sleep

the sight of man in free-fall
the smell of a fresh, new day
the feel of looking out at the
world

these are the sounds of living,
the very song of life.

we hear it
and
we play it
and
we know the tune

but,
never,
amongst all this
cacophony and
symphony,
do we ever
realize:

we were never taught this song

a space man came back home
and looked into his love’s eyes
with a wonder she could not
understand, and, mistaking it
for disgust, she said, “I must
barely compare to the beauty
of the all those stars.” But he
chuckled and said, “no darling,
no, it’s not that.” and looking
into his eyes she saw the stars,
aligned there ever so carefully
in the shape of her face, and
she remember then how much
he loved the stars and realized
why he had had ever come back
home at all.

that single drop of rain
that hits you square in the forehead
as you look up at the grey sky

then you wonder:
“Do I run,
or is it
too late?”

then your answered
as the single drop
turns to million and
all you can do is move
along, your soaking
clothes squeaking as
you walk

I found myself, today,
surrounded
by human trash

piling
higher
higher
higher

everywhere

in the streets
in the stores
in the houses

inescapable
undeniable

everywhere

and as I looked out
at the
human trash

piling

higher
higher
and
higher

I began to see

myself

in the trash

and

I
was

afraid

of what sort of man
could see trash
everywhere
he goes

the sun’s a-shining
I’m happy as can be

the sun’s a-shining
as the blue sky turns black

the sun’s a-shining
when I forget the day

the sun’s a-shining,
it’s all I have left

I saw three men on the roof today
and there was another,
with a big beard and a bigger smile,
that oversaw a jerry-rigged machine
making terrible noises
hooked to a white pick-up
that fumed with dark smoke
and smelled of awfulness

they each seemed willing to do what
they must, and happy to do it in fact

three men on a roof
one on the ground
working on this gray
and dreary day

the future seemed simple then

what can we do?

what can we
do?

nothing?

no.

not nothing.

maybe something.

maybe something
one day.

that’ll be a good
day.

yes,

that’ll be a good
day.

we wake at 7
pack all our bags
in the back of
the family car
and ride off
into the dawn
the sleepiness
not yet shaken
from our eyes

the things we learned
staring into each others eyes
after our first time making love
will be more important than
anything found in books

and the things we knew
as you ran away down the road
tears streaming from your face
will be more important than
anything we figured out while
still in love