This cold rain dripping outside
is part and parcel of Michigan spring
but I wonder if it’s truly necessary,
the way I wonder if this flu must come
like clockwork, every thirteen months

Some men are made of brass
that is bent and flexed
and pounded with hammers and
treated with heat until
a form is taken

and it is hardened from the work
that was done there

Other men are made of
similar stuff, but laid
upon mandrels and pressed
with sharp tools
on spinning lathes until
a similar form is conjured forth

but this is a soft, thin form
born of ease-of-production and
dreamed with cheapness in mind

It is a reasonable enough facsimile
of the part it is meant to resemble.
It will even do the job it is slotted for,
more or less

One day, though, this form will flex;
the ends will crease and the lengths will bend
so that it is useless to its purpose

And though it could be straightened out
and made to serve its use again,
scrap is what he’ll probably beceome, as
such cheap parts are always better off
replaced anyway

Terror precludes contentment
So at least I will move forward
As I, with my online shopping cart,
Terrify myself

I will end up
a gray stone marker
in a silent row –
with any luck, at least

Rock and Roll;
The louder,
The better,
The louder

Year five and
Year one are
Identical except
For the pithy parts

Cowards two were they;
one, scared of action
one, too scared to move
each hiding from themselves
behind the other,
circling in an awkward dance
as two wads of wretched detritus
in an unplugged tub

Perhaps too dizzying was this decent
that the truth of things got muddled.
Perhaps this is simply
what cowards tend to do,
as fear is King to cowards
and they will do all that is in their power
to serve His high commands

so down a drainhole they descend
to be deposited downstream, perhaps,
or else skimmed out in a reclamation plant
and cast in to a vat of caustic chemicals
for to make the water clean

And they will revel in this fate for a while
for Fear, their King, commands it
until one or the other finds a new master
or they are both bleached to death
inside of a sewage treatment tank

I stand at the top of a mountain

A six month ascent has brought me here

I am cold and winded. I am alone

A six month trudge through Hell and up hard passes has brought me here

I feel as I have died a hundred times, only to be born again

Each new life shorter and crueler than the last, yet long enough to climb another hundred yards

climb I did, though it killed me

now I look over the great wide range

And in a moment of quiet respite, I stand at the top of a mountain

Only as I plan to climb another one

I can remind myself of the real reason for things
and preach to myself about where my value comes from

I’m comforted at the foolishness
of my breathing thinking fearing
and pleased with the vanity for a moment
till the smile fades and the reality of my 6am
hits me hard again

but that’s why I keep preaching.

I could make a list
of everything you didn’t do
and I could set it next to
my own and I could assemble
a committee of fair and reasonable
unaffiliated parties who
with some deliberation
could assign point values
to each individual lack-of-movement
and when they tallied the score
I guarantee that those numbers
would be so damn close
it would come out in a wash
and Goodness knows we need
a good scrubing-down

maybe I can push aside these fears
and carry the weight of this more silently.

or maybe I can unload the weight
drop it on your shoulders instead of mine.

but letting go has never been one of my strengths
and then, succeeding hasn’t been either.

they’ll probably get along just fine without me