if confucius
was alive to-day
i bet he’d know
he’d be a hack
in the now,
mary. yet you
mis-quote his ancient
and relative
words/concepts
on your little
reminders,
taped to the
wall just like
your employees,
mary. and though
ritual propriety
is nice,
and so were the
things that kongzi
said, i doubt,
very firmly,
that he’d have
much to say
of the modern world.
even less of your
chinese restaurant
and the misdeeds
you’ve done to his
words and concepts,
mary.

Bird is dead.
The sordid utterances harping on
the statement written fifteen feet high
on a school building’s brick facade
don’t change anything

Bird is dead.
The countless articulations scattered
through Main Street America, or
just the parts that give a damn,
can’t bring anyone back to life.

Bird is dead.
Body buried, coroner clocked out,
and countless tributes and tears
mark the facts as true ones.

But when that record spins
and that needle hits
and that baseline kicks
and that sax starts to blow,
Bird Lives,
And there’s nothing you can do about it.

i don’t know what to do,
sitting here,
dazeduncertainlyspaced,
eye-lids dropping,
feeling drunk
without having a drink,
light headed,
hoping to pass out soon,
escaping into an unremembered dream,
but nice nonetheless
and over too soon
when i once again awake
to start another long day,
another sixteen hours spent
looking forward to bed.

the last three months
have translated into
three funerals,
making me wonder,
will i go twelve for twelve?

on sunday
i watched my little girl run and play
then buckle and seize before my eyes

the fear that gripped me
the picture that will never leave
i’m sure would be poetic if i could
conjure it up with words

instead of mere shudders

I drink my fine wine straight from
it’s un-stoppered, long-necked bottle,
and I don’t abide by those cheep
hot dogs, or fail to spring for extra
croutons on my Wendy’s Side Salad.

I’ll play all the songs I write on a
dime-store guitar from the sixties and
tune the strings with a pair of pliers
while swearing up and down (and
all too often) that Fender Telecasters
are the way to go.

I’ve driven American all my life
and done so far too late and
far too fast and far too often
for my health and wallet to
warrant, all for the thrill of watching
the speedometer go up while
the gas gauge goes down.

And finally, when all is
said and done, I’ll probably sit
down late one night.

And over
the course of a couple of hours,
between sips of wine and bites of hot dog, just before I tune my guitar
(only a bit after I turn off the car),
I’ll write about it.

Mostly, it’s been
somewhere else, with
largely dis-proportioned, backwards
reasoning that gets between the
bits that seemed important just
a moment (or two) ago.

Meanwhile, Certainty
only lasts as long
as one can remain certain that their
certainty is certainly
well-placed, while
continuing to remember that
only fools are certain.

Everyone knows, though,
exactly what it’s all about, and
and everyone, though certain,
certainly has their doubts,
even in the foggiest of
particularly foggy situations.

There’s a great deal of fog
somewhere else.
Apparently.

Even if
beauty cannot heal the hand that bleeds
in self-helplessness
a compass cannot delineate the reach of
self-conflict
I cannot wear the skin I am in
with a red lipstick smile
Do not leave me behind

Even if
high heel shoes make the world taller
hateful eyes spin their dark
love loses elasticity and heart
Do not make me so old

if you are happy and you are aware of it put your hands together
if you are happy and you are aware of it put your hands together
if you are happy and you are yourself aware of it
and you are desiring to have someone with whom
you can share it with
if you are happy and you yourself are quite aware of it then quit
standing around and put your hands together in a noise making
fashion

this will demonstrate your happiness

we make ripples
pathways of stone through serene grass
to avoid filthy mud

I knew it, I blew it,
but perhaps all is not lost, judging
from the lines on the bit that
doesn’t exist, (the lines are there,
just the bit is missing).

Triage is the next step,
weighing options, measuring
wounds, taking vitals and
writing everything on a big clippy-clip
board to be mulled over by the men
in my head with stained white
coats and thick-rimmed glasses.

What to do, if anything.

just look around you
and find inspiration i think
but then find it must come
from within me
(rather than without)
for it to be of much worth

awhackinstein
is a beautiful thought from within
but where to go from there…..

Herein lies the remains of my
latest bout of uninspiration,
muscles sore and mind on fire
learning things about things I
never new I had to learn before
and it is glorious. Or rather, not
so glorious, as immensely, immensely
satisfying.
Herein lies the crusted bits
from around the outside
of a fully-beating heart

to write a poem
about leaves falling
fluttering fragments
of the sky

but instead
i’m thinking about
what to write
on your parents’ sympathy card
choosing words to
express how blessed i feel to have met
you
and how badly i feel this world’s been fucking
robbed.
and i’m
trying not
to offend their grief,
oceanic and black as india ink,
by claiming to possess even
an ounce.

i suppose it’s time

but instead
i’m keeping my eyes open
until i fall asleep
because i know
in darkness i’ll think of you
and then cry
again.

(i’d like to understand this world
as temporary, a lightning strike–
but it’s so fucking hard to see eternity
with these weak eyes.)