R.I.P. P.S.H.

the way you wore your kind face
makes this more painful for the rest
of us, all broken souls alike, all

wanting to find nothing
more than feeling whole. your play
-acting was more real than most

people's living. in every role your humanity
stole the scene, and you left us
admiring everyone you have ever been.

PLAINTIVE

tell me what is
smaller or more

worthy of pity
than my own

tiny rhymed religion,
this plaintive poetry

that pacifies me
and makes life

feel a touch
less random.

OUTSIDE THE BAR

that moment when the old
drunk guy talking to himself

outside the bar is
barely older and drunker

and he's talking to you

begs so many questions:
what is life about,

and what exactly do you love,
and why, and whom?

ON MY BEST DAYS I AM

oh life i had

so many questions for you

in my youth: emphatic

queries intent on pulling

out the truth. i wanted to 

know that suffering was

in service of some

higher purpose, and also 

how to feel, on the whole,

somewhat less nervous and sad.

now older i am suffering more

and caring less

whether life is really “worth it.” 

on my best days i am 

content simply to live it.

UNSAID (for Jeffrey P. McManus)

i live my life on the edge
of tears, a salty soup
of joy stirred with dread.

any moment i might end
up dead or worse: heart-
broken instead. i tease

my hungry soul with art
that mimics how it feels
to be fed. i no longer expect

this universe to release me
from its wonder, at least not yet,
but in your honor i'm leaving 

fewer things
unsaid.

POETS EVEN LESS

most days i want to grab

you by your art-

work and give you

positive reviews until you

lose your sense of self-

worthlessness. it’s true

nobody likes poetry, and

poets even less. which begs

the question for both of us:

instead of verse why not try

making some other kind of mess?

OR SO I IMAGINE

as you get closer to dying

and only if you are lucky you

reach this point of sky-

mind, where life begins

to run in the background --

your thoughts become the clouds

flying past as you

recline, leaving

something or other

that was here

behind, and you

move into the space of everything

left still to find.

MORE OF A DOG PERSON

on days off i prowl

the neighborhood wondering

how some men i pass

perched on broken chairs

sit and stare at the street

all day long, like cats

with lives to spare,

looking like they haven’t

a care in the world. that i don’t

imagine they might have worries

tells you where my head is at.

maybe i am the lucky cat.

THE SAGE OF LAS VEGAS

these days you get loaded
questions from people
younger than you: how

do you get to live
like you do?
and you don't

resist the urge
to testify: “try, always
try, and when failure

visits, like a drunk
in the night, have a beer
with him before you

send him on his way.”
they like your skate shoes
and how you walk

around, fearless in the middle
of a work day. you wonder if
they really care what you say.

REFUGE

i urge you

do not question

your under-

lying beliefs

or those

residing still

further beneath, lest

you find yourself

free of deep

convictions, on your way

to gravity-

free relief.

ANAHEIM I'M NOT

oh, anaheim, i’m not
mad at your bad hats
and your primitive taste –
i can relate

to our america whose broad
freedoms grant us rights
to big bottoms and
all-we-can feed on.
i, too, was once a wanton

appetite zombie clinging
to my mommy – but
i grew up, threw up,
pushed back from that

gluttony. oh, america, how far
away are we from maturity?

ON FAITH

we find ourselves,

toes at the edge

of some possibly

next big something –

a precipice of maybe

meaning, maybe no-

thing – and we imagine

actually leaping, our moment-

arily weight-

less selves finally

free of notions

of identity and frozen in

air as if there was a chance

we could just rest there.

BECAUSE

love doesn’t need
religion or anything else.

it lives inside
each of us waiting to be

let out like a breath
or a hug. don’t get caught
up in mourning or regret.

because

life isn’t done
with us yet.

get on with it.

WHAT I CAN’T BEAR

it’s not the pain
i am entitled to.

it’s the pain
i feel unworthy

of. the pain i don’t
deserve to claim

as my own. the pain
that echoes

down through
generations. a pain

that was never mine
alone. the pain

that is stronger than any
i’ve ever known. it’s the pain

of thirst, for love, that is
empty like life is,
and heavy, and hurt-

ful as a smooth river
stone, thrown by some
dull david whose goliath
looms with projected
menace, intentions unknown.

IMAGINARY BUS

in despair i invent
an imaginary bus

packed with people
who meant something

to me while they were
alive. it drives alongside

me with windows down, and
the sound of proud

dead people cheering
echoes all around.

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.