OTHER DAYS (for Dave Wilber)

some days i happily put on
the sad sweater, play old

songs that have me  
staring out the window like a dog 

longing to be owned. other days
i feel the itch of despair

around my neck like a funeral procession, a receiving line of fleas
 

parading past the deceased and nothing,

not even music, eases the grip

of this melancholy; all sounds

become dull tones of surrender,

like the baying of a dreaming stray who's

had enough of waking up alone

legs flailing vainly to find whoever

and wherever once was home.

WIDE OPEN

that five pounds, your
leaky tires, the drinking, more
fiber. why bother? everything

is breaking now,
breaking down. you
get older, faster, see things
clearly; all that you love and have

loved dearly is receding,
your friends are gone, some dead,
others dying soon, and you finally
accept you are breaking, too.

you make big plans
through funeral tears, promise
to make amends, run errands,
fix years of neglect, to write
the end of that manuscript you've kept

in some drawer somewhere; life feels more
dire, bereft, and unspoken, and all
you want is to half-live like this

forever, torn,
imperfect and broken.

STILL ILL

the bled-out wine bottles and the stained
glasses stand like witnesses
to the accident that happened hours
before, stuck to the scene

as they wait to tell their tired stories
again. you don't mind, and
in time you'll learn pain
happens to all good men.

and the stereo reminds you
of what's true in the end:

"i'll probably
never see
you again."

AGAIN

we are dying,
friends, running
up the down
escalator, exercise
on top of exercise,
and for what? hands

never fully grasping
each other, railings
of incomprehension, "why

are we here,
why are we,
why?"; craving

the dull happy ache
of affection, slowing down,
suspending satisfaction until
we are standing before
our downfall. this ride is all,
and these lives lead directly
to temptation, and deliver us
to evil. amen. and can we
do it again?

BUT DON'T GIVE YOURSELF AWAY

today is the day

i give up. i don't

expect to be

fully happy

ever again. a year ago

i would have stuck

my arm in the sideways blink

of the elevator doors expecting

some form of human

or mechanical pity.

today is the day i started to think

those doors are probably gonna close 
on me.

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.