There are things you begin to discover
as the clocks continue
their merciless tocking

like when taking a sink bath
in a gas station bathroom
at 2:00am
you notice your hair is thinning
your skin is rough or sagging
in places that once were always smooth
and taut
your teeth, slightly and inexplicably crooked,
have lost their pale moon shine
and begun to yellow
like the leaves of a cottonwood in the fall

you learn of these things, and they hurt
they hurt
until you realize that you are not a sculpture,
not some painting to be hung upon a wall
not something static and unchanging
to be marveled at,
to be pondered over.

it is then that you finally begin
to understand:
you, your life itself,
is an evolving
work of art.

live it well enough
and it will be studied,
it will be imitated
more than anything they could ever hold
within museum walls,

and infinitely more
meaningful.

 

 

 

before my grandmother
died
her mind
had already gone

she called us all
by names
not our own

and she would swear
that she could hear
organ music
that none of us
could ever
hear

i think
i hear it
now

 

 

Those coffee spoons, they’re broken now —
I, too, have risen from a stony sleep;
I never imagined all those miles to go
could break the promises I’d meant to keep.

I once sailed, at peace with all existence;
Now I’m groping for some purpose or a plan.
On my tongue, in ink, I’ve tattooed Distance,
baffled by a glance from Miss Understand.

Enough of old things, enough of decay!
My mouth tastes of defiance, and yours
(Some day you’ll see what I wish to convey!)
of tragedy and Victorian wars.

Set a new trajectory! Head unbowed,
I’m off circling centuries, beyond the Oort cloud.

 

 

 

the words
like tears
rarely come.
they cannot be beckoned
or summoned forth,
but the people
do not understand.
they find me
they sit me down
they say, speak!
i want to hear
your words.

most often
i am quiet –
the words are just
not there.

and the people become
irate,
incredulous;
their hearts flood
with soft murder.

they say,
you are supposed to be
a writer
an artist
a poet
( i am none
of these things
but
the people believe
what they want
to believe ).
well, i think
you are just
an idiot!

and i think
they are right.

mercy,
miracles,
illumination:
these are the things
they want
from me.

they want
precisely
what is not
mine
to give.