Something Nice
The rims of my eyes glow diablo red from years of asphalt beds, bottom-shelf whiskeys, and unempathetic strangers. At least this is what my reflection tells me, a reflection of an empty man in a piss puddle in the gutters of some shit stain town. The preacher at the shelter said God would come into my life. Never did. Guess I can’t blame him.
Guess I’ve got no one to blame but myself. They tried to help me. Friends. Family. Couldn’t stay on the wagon. Or didn’t want to. I never could take this life sober; I don’t know who would try.
I’ve got a liter of the good stuff sloshing around in my rancid guts, fueling me like coal does a steam locomotive. I totter through the streets with dragon-breath fumes. The town folk keep their distance, faces scrunched in disgust. They don’t affect me. I’ve fallen too far, become too numb to feel shame. To feel anything.
I was in love once. Best girl I’d ever met. She left me for some prick with money. Hadn’t seen her in years. She passed through town not too long ago, and I asked if she remembered me. She said that I smelled of shit. And that was it. Never gave a damn what the rest of the world thought, but when she gave up on me, I knew it was over.
A vapory spectre shoots from my lips, into the frigid air. Withered leaves crunch like bones beneath my feet. In the eye of October looms the threat of winter. I can’t take another one of those. No, this will be my last. I’d wanted to do it earlier, but the path was clouded. There isn’t enough booze on earth to stop my heart, and this one-story town doesn’t provide a single skyscraper to leap from.
Anyway, I’m sure you’ve had enough with the ruminations of a pathetic old drunk. I’m almost there. Lake Superior. I do hope it’s quick. I hope the coldness of it all paralyzes my body, and I pass out from shock. I hope the great body swallows me whole and doesn’t spit me out.
It’s only appropriate such an insignificant creature should hurl himself into such a vast expanse. So I can be forgotten without a fuss. A speck of sand in the hourglass of the universe, passing to the other side without anybody noticing. I do hope they use an old picture for the obituary. I do hope they find something nice to say.
A work in process
What is love
to those like us
full of it
and insatiable,
Who’s to say
what’s enough
when all
and nothing
is up to us?
For how you feel
I am not
in fact
responsible
though
I must concede
there are just
two of us
here in
mirrored
apprehension.
What is it
we can utter
beyond
convention,
if Love
is a construct
like God,
a human
invention?
You say
let’s build
a monument
moment by moment
a fragmentation
we will not forget
in times of
dissolution
and regret.
Tear drops
are also
heaven-sent
if seen as
something
we choose
to recollect;
The spawns
of whatever
argument
the isolated
intellect
might present,
or hold in check.
Raccoon on a Roof
I’m a raccoon on a roof.
Covered in floof.
It’s been a long day.
My energy went poof.
I was trying to tan.
But along came a man.
Said he had food, but when I came down to eat some, he attacked me with can.
I think it is nice.
Up here on this roof.
Because I am safe from the humans.
Covered in floof.
You Are
i desperate,
at the end
of a longing to end
the ragged line
the crush of weight
the dim of light
the heavy blow
the venom in my veins
the enemy of my soul
i weak
ready for the fail
no relief
i
out of a thin veil
saw your face
your eyes,
into mine
your look,
clear and strong,
though brief
changed it all
mystery strength,
from you,
filled me,
somehow
infinity,
no explanation needed,
i think in awe,
how you saw,
you always see
your look,
your face,
filled me,
by grace
you know my bounds
at point of death
of one of hell’s
vile hounds
my limits
and my frail form,
my enemies surround
my heart torn,
my empty sound
of groan
you make me strong,
by your being there,
here,
though not long,
. . . no stare or glare,
just your look,
penetration deep,
is all it took
everywhere i walk,
think,
and breathe,
. . . every attack
on my frail form
you perceive
your look healed me
your presence made them flee,
they,
the dark powers that be,
at this time, so in need,
set me free,
. . . from you,
demons flee
i in gratitude,
know,
i am not alone,
i am borne,
by your love
. . . this makes real,
not just your invisible love,
. . . a touch,
your touch,
. . . no one else,
no thing,
can do,
. . . none,
nothing can convince,
I Am that I Am,
is who your Are
i rest my case,
my internal dialogue,
lies still
and knows,
you are who you are
i don’t care if they scoff,
their boast,
. . . “you cannot prove
the existence of God,”
the proof is,
we live,
. . . i
am not here for them
i
am here for you
from suns,
to frigid,
black
and empty deep,
to quasar white,
hot beyond cognition
to quarks and such,
as particles to stuff,
spirit is made of,
the dense,
the dark
the heavy thick,
to light,
. . . brilliant, blazing light
i am enveloped in wonder,
. . . a feather floating in the whirlwind,
near the flames of death,
i ponder
hell or heaven,
good or bad,
dregs or heights,
love or hate,
distress or joy,
the list is endless,
such immensity of weight
into your care
i acquiesce
into utter weakness
you are real,
real enough to remember
you were there
you are here,
when i need you most
no weapon formed against me
will prosper,
you see to it
. . . no temptation can overtake me,
no height or depth
no power
no evil,
can overcome or take me
. . . nothing can separate us
from the love of God,
if we let you
you stood on a small boat,
“be still,” you said,
. . . the storm stopped,
you are Lord of all creation
These Quaint, Caucasian
spiritualities du jour
eating their own faces
off of pillows, in appropriated lotus
beside broad, cream, french
sunroom doors (they open out
to nothing, forest) licking
their lips, belching
Rumi, hyperpronounced Oms
labored sighs, standing, measuring
out, dicing, eviscerating
fruit
(never come down)
in the whirring thresher.
