THOSE POOR TURKEYS

once again we are hurtling head-
long into a season of paying

lip-service to gratitude
and reverence -- saying

lukewarm prayers into an infinite void
(that may or may not be)
peopled with the vigilant

souls of dead loved ones
and other relatives and celebrities

of various import in our personal
and collective histories.

we half-ask the dead to protect us,
and we bow our heads
for a moment to appear
reflective.

RELIGIOUS (for Ram Dass)

two plus two
don't need four
to exist. just like all this

god math is superfluous. created
by illusionists. absent literal
relevance, it's merely comforting

artifice.

CARRY ON

office work is for the birds --
the vultures to be
precise; it's for blood-

sucking vampire bats
in business-casual dress, those
whose nocturnal man-caves
scarcely blot out the blinding

pain of largely vain daytime pursuits.
anymore the mass of men,
lacking mettle, seem content

to settle for less, for vocations
that are entirely uncalled-for
and almost certain to depress.

OH MY ACCELERATING

oh my accelerating
weakness of flesh
and mind -- the undeniable
decaying of everything i think of
as mine, save for spirit,
which soldiers on some days
better than others. gone

is the short-term memory;
in its place the long-term
grows ever more fine: yes!
(i remember that one time.)

woe is my mantra, the sound
of the space between
my ragged breaths. i ache
and remember everything
trivial, each moment stripped
of context, and i no longer
consider what might come next.

OUR WAY OUT

there is little true poverty
left in america. right?

the 99% have electricity,
clean water, indoor plumbing
and a fridge full

of processed "food."
(it's all good.) except for
the hole in our collective
american soul, of course,
which explains our corn-fed,
over-stuffed corpus maximus.

(what is wrong with us?)
for better or for worse

we are an unwed mess
of oversexed dilettantes (at best),
or churched-up philistines
wielding Ayn Rand philosophies (no less).

it doesn't take religion
to enter the kingdom.
and actions libel the bible
more effectively than blasphemy.

why not spend our free
speech compassionately? maybe
we could love our way
out of poverty.

GET ME OUT OF HERE

conference call people
carry on as if
heaven were assured –
when who knows

if it's even there –
but they’re all, “who cares

what happens here
in this unprecious now,
impress us, like wow,"

and they're like
"blah blah budgets,
blah blah weekend,
blah blah beer
blah blah the Dow.”

as if silence were
a slippery slope
downward, a tilting
toward (rather than at) fear,

filling space with chatter
and feigned good
cheer, as if banter
were a beacon rather than
the headlight to their deer.

WHAT IS TO BE DONE

once we found shallow consolation in knowing

though all will surely die one day
we might leave traces – DNA,

a poem, a hospital wing or vacation
home, graffiti – temporarily, behind.

further studies have revealed the eventual dimming

of the sun and the resulting withdrawal
of life from everything and everyone

begging the question:
what is
to be
done.

TIME TO GO (for Christopher Hitchens)

people suspect funny stuff
from dead folks:

all the supposed spinning
and rolling over in the grave,

the notion of ghosts hovering
over shoulders, and brave souls

trolling the realms of the real
in search of closure. perhaps

what we need is a cosmic bouncer
to make it supernaturally clear:

"you don't have to go home
but you can't stay here."

OF THIS WORLD

i feigned
caring too little
when i cared too
much; i feared breaking
down in sobs
when the world was
simply too very

much. older
now i find myself
pretending to care;
and though crying

might be appropriate
i find few tears left
there; it’s as if
as i grew
into the world i tried
to uncover what
it was about, and now

i find myself
detaching from this
question: alas, with wonder
intact, i am beginning
to grow out.

HONEST

let me be
honest: drinking

isn't the end-
all, be-
all, but

it helps create

a lull between
judgment and torment --
three beers and
nobody cares

what you meant, or whether

the money
or the dreams are
already spent.

A POEM FOR GENX

paralysis is a convulsive
word. too many

syllables and hard
to say. fro-

zen would be
better. we simply

stopped

moving
a long time ago.

and another thing
about you and me:

we are
hilarious.

we pretend
there is

any such thing
as a country or a generation.

carry on,
my wayward

brethren. we have more faux
work to be
done.

TRAGEDY

you get gunned
down in bad
movies: people

mistake bullets
for being
part of the show.

you get groped
in school showers
by teachers and coaches

everybody knows.
you wake up
broken if you're lucky

or your lover's body
covers you for safety.
and everybody asks why

we wear masks
and tell lies.
life is tragedy.

CAREER

what do i care for
my career, its ridiculous

trajectory –

none of this
matters to me.

at my most desperate
i grasp poems out

of thin air and memory,
each defying the absence

of relevance and creating
solid ground

beneath me.
from now on

i work for poetry.

IRONICALLY

to contemplate non-

existence within

the frame of being

is, under normal

circumstances: dizzying.

you said when

end of days

was intimated in

your diagnosis
it was the first time

you felt complete
peace
with your mortality.

WHY NOT

tattoo your eye-
ball if you want to
remember some
significant advice
or event.

hire someone
to carry a sign
in front of you,

“i loved this dead
guy,” or “always be
kind.” you want to be

more present or be-
have more consistently
do you really need
ink needled under
your skin for everyone
to see?

live and let
live. be and let
be. we’re all going
to die eventually.

ashes to ashes,
ink to dust,
your body a taut
canvas, stretched
between you and me.

WHAT I NEED TO WRITE A POEM (for Alan Wright)

to be bored.
a keyboard.
wine poured.

something wrong
or right. the words
to a song, a fight,
a free day or
a long night.

mostly just to sit still
and write.

HOW IT FEELS

you are an old man or any age
and life is the iced-over pond
you're standing on, spring
winking darkly nearby;

and you're holding
high a dandelion, past
its prime, blowing doomed
canopied seeds

into the firestorm
that's taken over
the shore like nothing
you've ever seen before.

WIFE (for Eileen)

say love
softly, it sounds
like "life."

live life
fully it feels
like love.

together,
in life,
in love,
it's more than
enough.

TENSION

"we have up-
graded you
to a suite,

complete with a soaking
tub and a dramatic
balcony." "sweet,"

you say, accidentally
cute, and the girl behind
the desk shoots you

an eye-roll, over-
laid with feigned amuse-
ment, but really feeling

every bit of the surface derision
that cannot be hidden
beneath her expression.

LOSS

you wonder what
could be worse
than fever

dreams that appear
as flaming ghost heads

spinning
neck-defying
circles above your bed.

until an answer like
death itself arrives
in the form of an absence
of relief: you will never again be

fully asleep. it’s time to start
praying for keeps.

THROUGH AGING I BEGIN

through aging i begin
to resemble myself
wearing a costume of myself --

skin one size
too big despite

the exercise --

and even if the man inside

stays fit, the suit is worn smooth
and losing its shape,

or maybe just can’t
remember it.