Grief

There is a massive lot across from my place of work

dug out of a hillside

with eight or nine basketball courts lined back to back

only one of which still has its hoops.

When I’m waiting for the bus I gaze at it.

On the north side it is lined with gray thorn bushes.

Beyond it, to the east, one can see old church spires

and massive brick tenements.

Conspicuous in the thorn bushes dangles a single black bag

like a flag of some forgotten revolution, or one that has yet to come.

All of it engenders a kind of errant hopelessness,

or hopefulness, I can’t say which.

Above it, the moon looks faded

like the face of an old man who has begun 

to comprehend death, or life, I can’t say which.

The chain linked fence that blocks it off is lined with trash

and the basketball courts, though covered with dust,

look pristine in the late afternoon light.

People walk up and down the street, not noticing.

As far as I can tell, nobody plays here anymore.

The sun goes down in the west, and the sky is beautiful.

Here, in this spot, something will be built

and in time, will be destroyed.

Not all things that are lost are grieved for.

Some things—like the black bag and this old lot—

can only grieve for themselves.

Dark Woman and the Algae Muse

A dark tale

Of a dark woman

Exposed by vanity’s looking glass.

Hair of sun rays, looking glass eyes.

She sees herself seeing herself

Seeing herself an infinitude of times.

Muse by the river, won’t you come to me?

Muse by the river, sticking to the grass,

Muse by the river, made of algae.

Sand in your green hair

Pours down as you rise

With a groan and black birds

Pour out from between your

Liver-colored lips.

Dark woman in the mirror,

Expecting deliverance.

Bang bang! A knocking

On the front door.

Dark woman floats like an octopus

Down the stairs.

She opens the door, the algae-muse

Is sopping wet.

“Won’t you come in?” she says. “There is tea.”

The poet is laughing, hysterically.

All of it transcribed by his fountain pen,

The poet is laughing at this creation.

Then the moon, too, starts to laugh

Its low guttural laugh, mist rising From its silver lips.

The stars start to titter, too.

The very ground shakes with laughter.

In the garden, the roses bloom.

The wind runs through, shaking

With laughter.

Meanwhile, the dark woman

And the algae-muse are sipping tea,

Oblivious to all except

The bob and weave of a candle flame.

When the poet stops laughing,

He wonders, am I going insane? 

1/3/2023

I walked out this morning to find it raining

in January.

It was sixty degrees.

I had just watched a 60 Minutes piece about

the impending mass extinction.

I heard the caw of a crow overhead.

My life, so insignificant, will someday come 

to an end.

What of this world?

I read the great poets because I think

it will make me a better poet.

I watch 60 Minutes because I think

it will make me a better human being.

I try to live in the present because

I cannot tolerate my past self

and I cannot bear to think of 

what the future has in store.

I do know that there is no point in 

remaining silent, no point

in remaining cool anymore.

I’d rather be exposed for the fool

I am than sit complacent and be considered

a wise man. I’d rather follow those

who are foolishly endeavoring to do some good

than those who stand by and say,

“There is no point.”

In a world that is falling, what can one do

but strain oneself to keep it upright?

What can one do but shoulder the burden

with all of one’s strength, no matter how slight

that strength may be?

I walked out this morning and it was

sixty degrees and raining

in January.

I heard a crow caw overhead.

It was heading North for the winter.

Sleepy, Sleepless

My bloated belly breath squeaks like

a trapped mouse and rattles

the cage of my ribs like a prisoner

gone mad from years of solitude.

Reality now is just a vapor and 

everything I see an emanation

of a spiritual dusk dissipating

into darkness. I light a candle

and the flame dances its way

down the long hall toward oblivion,

where the ghost of someone’s mother

smiling waits. Trees sway outside

my window trying to lull me into

the dance of living, but I am content

to drip down from the faucet of this

room to the drain of impending sleep.

The moon blows a frost against the

window pane, but my eyes are glazed

over with the notes of a nocturne

and I am kissing the world goodbye

with every breath and every slight

declension of my eyelids. There is a

noose now hanging from every lintel

and ghosts now walk through every

doorway in my body and my mind

is very quiet but for the crackling of

a candle wick that’s burning from

a flame that’s disappearing down

a long hall toward oblivion where

the ghost of someone’s mother

smiling waits.

A Night with a Prostitute

The prostitute beside me said:

“You don’t have to worry.

We can stay in bed.

We can fuck

all night long, getting crimson red.

And when morning comes, I’ll fix you a meal.

We can eat it in our birthday suits.

How ‘bout it? Is it a deal?”

I turned to her with a smile

and she smiled back.

Then I gave her a boning

and lavished kisses on her rack.

And just like that, I was satisfied

with all of life and its fleetingness.

The moonlight shone through the window pane

casting shadows that found no space

between us.

A Night Visit

    The man takes a spoon and scoops out a ball of chocolate ice cream from a pint container. He is sitting alone in a room at a small round wooden table. He begins to eat the ice cream, slowly, relishing each small spoon full. He is thinking how absurd this is, to be sitting alone, enjoying such a pleasure, when the rest of the world is in chaos. Somewhere inside of him is chaos, though he has lost sight of it for the time being. Now, he only focuses his attention on the cool, sweet, chocolate creaminess of the ice cream. What else could there be that is more important than this delicacy? Certainly, somewhere there are wars being fought, people starving, people shooting up drugs. Is the ice cream itself not a drug? Yes, indeed it is, he thinks to himself and smiles before taking another bite of the creamy goodness. But, if it is a drug, it is certainly worth the sacrifice of a life filled with drama, disappointment, heartache. In this little room he can enjoy his ice cream without any fear or doubt. That in itself is life, is it not? Yes, indeed it is, he thinks to himself as he lets the ice cream settle on his tongue. It is just as much life as anyone could possibly ask for, so he will sit here and consume the entire pint, however long it takes. And when he is done, he will throw the empty container into a now empty trash receptacle. But why is the trash receptacle empty? Because he went to the trouble to take the full trash bag out to the trash bins sitting in front of his small porch. Yes, that much is true. But now the trash receptacle is empty and so he is completely content, even as he thinks of the putrid stench of the trash cans outside. He will finish his ice cream, throw away the container, replace the spoon in the drawer (after washing it off) and then go to bed. Yes, he thinks to himself, it is all so wonderfully simple. But then there is a knock on his door. Who could it be, at this hour of the night? He places the spoon in the container of ice cream, which is now half empty, scoots back his chair, and with a little grunt he stands up. He walks to the door and hears more knocking. “Yes, yes, just a minute,” he says, as if only to himself.

He opens the door. It is a woman, wet from rain. She looks distressed. She also looks familiar, but from where, the man cannot say for certain. She must be a neighbor.

“You’re soaked,” says the man. “Come in.”

The woman enters.

“What are you doing out in the rain at this hour of the night?” the man asks.

The woman shakes her head, as if regretfully. “Come,” says the man. “Sit down, get dry. Would you like some tea?”

The woman shakes her head. The man leads her to the table, where they sit down across from each other. He has now forgotten his ice cream, which sits melting in the container. “You seem under distress,” says the man. “What’s on your mind?”

“That’s the thing,” says the woman. “My mind is gone. It has deserted me. I feel as if I am in a dream.”

“This isn’t a dream,” the man says, and finally realizes she is his next-door neighbor.

“If it isn’t,” says the woman, “then I truly am doomed.”

“Would you like to go to the hospital?” the man asks.

“No!” cries the woman. “That would be the end of me. I only want some company.”

“Okay,” says the man. “I’ll keep you company. Only, tell me, what led you out of your house tonight?”

“I was looking for my mind,” says the woman. “I’ve lost it somewhere. I believe that it got lost in the pixels of my television screen, and traveled through the electric wires, and ended up somewhere, only God knows where.”

“You still have your mind,” says the man. “You wouldn’t be able to talk to me if you didn’t.” Yet, as the man looks into her eyes, which are constantly darting this way and that, he can tell that the woman is completely insane.

“You live a lonely life,” says the woman.

“You can tell, can you?” says the man with a smile.

“Why don’t you let me be your lover?” the woman asks.

“I fear that that is impossible,” says the man. “I would be taking advantage of you if I did that.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” says the woman. “It is what I want. You see, now that I have no mind, I must live a fully corporeal existence. Oh, I am tired.” She bows her head. “Please, take me to bed with you.”

The man shakes his head. “No, but you go to sleep now. Perhaps your mind will return in the morning.”

He gets up and leads the woman to his bed. She lays down and instantly falls asleep. The man watches her. Then, he goes to the foot of the bed and kneels and begins to pray: “Lord, let this woman’s mind return to her tonight. I ask nothing more.”

The man lays down on the carpet and falls asleep. When he wakes the next morning, the woman is still sleeping on his bed. He watches her sleep until her eyes flip open and she sits up. “Curse you!” she cries. “I had one chance to regain my mind, and you would not do what needed to be done! Now, you too must go insane!”

The man’s heart stops beating, or so it seems to him, and he feels that there is now something growing inside of him—a creature which will be born when he himself dies.

Waking in Terror

Lastly, out of the wreckage of night,

came a shiver of thought, broken

by wanting. Terror stricken, I beheld

a two-headed triumph—a broken life

and a laurel crown, a woman’s distant

whimper and the shadows, the whirling

shadows lifting me toward the moon.

Exiled, silently weeping, I scorn the touch

of those who would be lovers and drink

the ash of a perfect doom. Shame and

scorn tie the knot in my overgrown heart

and all breath is a leaving, no boon or balm

can palliate my pain. I wake in terror—

there is no error to my shame. My prison

is boundless, my sentence eternity,

the cruel winds messengers of my fate,

and a desire that ever dissipates as 

brooding death rears its head over the

horizon, whispering in a voice that chills

the blood the only truth a man can know: 

“Come! You are too late!” And so, I drink

the poison.