The leaving by Patrick Birdener

The Leaving

Patrick Birdener

The Leaving

Sweet “requiem on a dream,”

It slipped in easy, whispered in the wind as it was Slowly leaving, That it was taking all my colored leaves away. These days Nothing seems to matter. I’d like To help you, friend, but I’m Walking off To where no one cares anymore, For a while. I’m locking the door now, Be back in a few years. I know you won’t Wait around.

Maybe I’ll go mad with my solitude, But that is a path some people must tread. I’ll still work and all, and eat and drink, And old shows still provide some comfort. I’ll live a full life and insane, Watching full moons wane, casting dull shadows. One may not consider me healthy, But shade is a precious commodity, and thus I’ll count myself among the wealthy.

I’m losing the closest thing I have to a passion. Still, these are some of my happiest days, thus far. I’m free of most pride, codes, and morals, and Wouldn’t choose to care each day. And I sit near the bottom, plod along the edge, lay in a bed I never make, with comfortable crumpled sheets, warm with six months’ remains. I’m losing the closest thing I have to a passion. Still, these are some of my happiest days.

Thus freed of my reasons, I follow the breeze, Adrift in the vastness of sky. And I “live in the moment,” rise to the dream, Float in a stream going nowhere particular yet. I’m losing the closest thing I have to a passion. Still, these are some of my happiest days. And I’ve savored the moment that fades, Lived for the perishable, cherished The finite, mantle for an altar, Festered like a good lost soul sore for Earth. I’m losing the closest thing I have to a passion. The closet doors are closing now. Quit your watch on that catch phrase. It’s already been coined. Loose that poem’s waist band. It’s in everyone’s laundry. I’ve locked in my last combination of words, And the clock has struck, so, “my work here is done.”

Fearing my chair will fall backwards, From a rise in carpeted bristles, Fearing my pubic area’s rise—nothing to do With sex, thanks, Doctor—fearing my eyes will slide Left or slide right, slip out of their sockets, or worse, fall Back through the skull, worried they may be burned by some light After widening lids—turn off the computer mid-work—and again, and Again, and again, fearing the floor in the hallway is higher Than that in the bedroom. I’m naming a few. A child outside cries, “Papa!” All the cars, it seems, run louder these days, maybe because of the recession— Can’t afford the parts to make them run more quietly?—But I digress, I guess— There are walls and doors to close, and roses to grow and ascend them, And medications to swallow, and bitter pills—but—and I’m not sorry—they will not Be yours right now.

I brought a chair ‘cause I’d like to sit here, Quietly wait the tide. Another dry but coffee brained author of six Prints another quick witted, black-and-white book. Let’s sit around, friend, one of these days, in high sobriety— Coffee and a wedge of bread. We’ll discuss the comings of the tides, what stones they bring, In leaving, what they take away. A stone’s pace in a gracelessly leaving tide Must be deadly quick indeed. But we’ll spin ourselves around the world, Turn the time until it seems beautiful, Take all the toxic talk, spin it up and Spit out pearls. If we could only dash them on the tides, Adorn the final splash…

Oh, let’s go leap off a tower, Take our cares and sorrows with us. Guess we might as well Take a pill, Throw a pillow, take a shower, Clean ourselves off, Shave face. See a film.

Misadventure. No value. Sleep over on the sidewalk. In the morning rained out you will Go back home. Go nowhere else. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been a living success, so Having nothing left to do, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re Surviving quite well. No more drive. No value. Simple things are the same all the time. Bored and tired.

And tired of being bored.

The brief sprint on fire is over, But this cold marathon wearies the will. Stop for a breather. Never run again.

Legend Alliances made with silent killers— Walking softly in your white ghost makeup and Sloppy drippy bright red grin, Nippy with a blade, and playful with a Tommy gun, Taking too many Ambien to sleep— What mix was it, finally nixed you from existence? You lived just long enough to leave us with a legend In your prime, your finest character sketching firmly etched, Detaching before you could even hear Heath Ledger Start to fade.

I saw a young girl I knew once, grown into a woman, A fine looking woman—she was a fine looking girl. I’m sure she’s prospered well. I heard her older sister’s getting married, And her older brother just got back from the war, A little more than a year ago. My old high school friend also mentioned then that his Younger sister was getting married. Then he talked about His challenging college career, Said he’d accidentally snorted pure caffeine Sucked from some tea leaves—at least he had some fun. And they’re all moving on, And I’m moving on. We’re beginning to differentiate Between who’s who and what’s what. I ran away early From the “moving up” game, And hid where people seldom find me. I was always “The Watcher.” But I don’t like to watch too much these days, Though I listen, and “catch wind.”

I’ve never blown through your leaves, Even though I’ve always flown. I’ve known the ease of never being known. And the minute that I’m gone, You’ll be laughing at a joke, and a perfect stranger Will stumble and say I “croaked,” “in the middle of the night” Of my life. If it seems lonely to you, To me it seems just right. I’m the voice That whispers, never wishing more. And though You may count my credits on one pointing digit, At least I wedged my foot in the closing door of time, And woke, and fidgeted, and took the time to rhyme.

Too High The bathroom’s black and blue, as the sun goes down outside at five. I love to live, but there’s nothing left to do but what’s been done before. I got so high I cried about my life, with sorrow for all there is. Don’t expect me back tomorrow. I’ll be back next week. Now, much has grown while my dreams have run streaming to a dawn, Things that grow every year in the universe— Another little book, and many uncollected verses Meaningless. Many have personal wars, struggling to survive against themselves. I think I’m losing mine, but I don’t mind.

Awake. Still high from last night’s over-caffeination. It’s an angry high, Gradually diminishing through the afternoon In admonishing shades, As I missed the morning’s tea. On my MP3 player Roy Buchanon beseeches Jesus.

Continual curses lose their meanings, when only verbal, on the giving side. Perennial blessings depreciate when implied, and places we hide in troubled times Become comfortable homes, when “over-used,” and “avenues of escape” turn into Expected stops along the way, desired pause for play. And in the spacious bubbles we build campfires, dance ‘round their flames, And the shadows thrown are our friends.

It sometimes comes with genius, But is also a lazy boy's disease, 'Cause it's one of those equalizers. Soar to high, and it'll cut you a little lower. Sit and flower too long in the sun, OCD will cloud and muddle things, without rain. Sit with cup and saucer, sipping in fun, and it'll sour All your sweets. Set that buiscuit down, and walk Your circuits. You who soar above the rest, You have a master.

I was sure this was cliché. Thought I’d lifted it from Somewhere. Anywhere. All that’s left are Word combinations, anyway. Combinations ‘till the day We’re dead. Oh, it was so good, when it was “One verse down, 999 to go,” or so. So good. Now it seems There are far fewer verses ahead than behind, even if I’m groaning on. Maybe I’ll just Rant and pass it off as something. An old car groans outside. What began as a delightful Little sadness, is not as beautiful now as it once was, But that’s all right. Maybe I’ll get married, have children—for real. Well, probably not, but if I did, I would Tell them— Don’t do what Daddy did. Don’t be yourselves too much. If you want to be happy, maybe you should stay between the lines, ‘cause there are monsters waiting on the outside. The world was old in my day, and it’s not getting any younger, barring stuff like nuclear war. Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but, The clouds outside are pouring rain, real rain!—really? Well, who’d have thunk it? I think I’ll go outside and fill myself with the good wet air, get all drunk again, Feel the syndicated crocodile tears, falling softly.

The rain falls on petals of new flowers in the good old meadow, With the shade that passes long and quick for old souls. Slow— Take in The moment. List the tapping on the petals beneath the clapping on the leaves. Love is a labor to stay young seed against elements of aging relevance. Hear the harmony. Lisp the melody. Now the old is new again in the rain.

Locked in bedlam limbo, Within some homemade house of health. Always one more battle, Sweetened with conspiracy. And even though It’s your family, be careful, or some secret slipping Trips and breaks your neck.

Well, what do I do with all my

freedom?—

Sit on the toilet, seeing blood—good news, No blood today. I’m also losing from my nose, But that’s ok, because I’m using this to help me Feel human.

Well, I just popped up to smell the roses. It has been a couple years. And though the breeze is

so nice,

I think I’ll leave it all behind, another couple years.

17 Yes, I’ve been

writing poesies.

Sometimes the muse flows well. But lately I’ve been

trying,

As all ideas die upon first drawing breath. It doesn’t help that there is nothing really new In the world.

And I’ve been

living off of dreams,

Just as anyone would do. These dreams don’t Burn off In the growing light of natural dawn, though they may drown from Swimming in an ocean oh so long, and all alone.

--Not that I need anyone but me. I could never be so

cozy with another, ‘cause

In my soul, I know I’m married to my self.

You’ve lived on a ledge, never ready to plunge, But don’t live there too long, or you’ll have to plunge into life. I’ve been shot over the top of a great summit, just adrift in a swift breeze— But that same breeze can’t ease me down. And it’s such a long way down— Oh, I’ve been floating and fading so long above The Living.

Maybe someone will help me—put a bullet through my balloon. My will is so soft, after soaking so long in a nice, hot bath. The truth is I know it’s going to cost me; it just hasn’t hit me too hard yet.

So this is the true end of the dream (Which hopefully isn’t ending.) The sky is bright light blue And clean. The straight and piled snow Could not be whiter. On the sleeping tree before me hangs A light green lopsided box. I didn’t know in days before But in the sober light of a final dawn I suppose it’s a Bird house. Happy birds. Don’t begrudge the tub dwelling toilet child, Or his bedfellow of their pains in Coming out to a suddenly colder world When the condemnation they knew would come Has come. They knew, but it was So damn easy choosing nothing. --Friend, I don’t know Where or how I’ll wind up. This has been like a cancer. If only one of us can survive, Surmount one more summit, Climb the last hill, and we’ll Face off with pistols.

And so “the game is over,” and “the time has come,” To see if there’s another book I’d like to leave with, Run through all my uncollected work, And if anything peaks my interest, I’ll slip it in. This is one of my most devoted moments.

I’ve always been a last minute man. I might like to stay and play here, But the play is getting awfully dull, And the work, of course, is hell, And I’m devoted to nothing but the writing, And if they haven’t before, everyone else is Beginning to notice. And I’ve done my best with the writing, But everything including this is clichéd to the limit. I might dream of a “better day,” But I wouldn’t have it any other way. And if I left it all now, I’d satisfy the Life-chapter completion requirement, Leaving behind a steady career. All my old notebooks are in the black file cabinet, And there’s one particular folder, crammed to the brims. I’ve never destroyed any writing, and I see no reason To do so now. If you’re going to know who I was, You might as well know who I was. And so, “the game is over.” I think I’ll go and Have some more dull fun tonight, Stick this in a mental drawer. And when I’ve had A few more good years of hell, I’ll be Looking back at another charming memory.

Those Were the Days He comments on a new film in a poem of a volume from Killing time. Never having paid any bills yet, sits by roadside Watching the travelers’ trends. A wild wind is blowing, strong enough to Pull him along, but he’s got his safe brick box to go to, when the watch is done. Soft bed. He doesn’t sleep well. But— A soft life, with sufficiency of walls, and doors with locks and chains and bars

Has him sold.

The substance of life is falling, And the hats in the street gather rain, and pass it on To the ground. And some people were hissed out and Pissed on. And you’re trying to grab a happy man from his haze and Make him feel the news below—oh, Hell has many shades.

Around Inside I’ve known luxury, toxic leisure, sleazy and learning to live with it, Nose bleeds and learning to really love the color red. And I have a disease, But I know I’m a cancer myself, and my conscience screamed for a while, But over time, its voice has dimmed to a whisper. And I’ve Fallen in love with some types of toxins. And I’ve Been to heaven, and where the hell do you go after that? And all that. And now it’s all burned beans and brown towels. A real toilet sit-down Rushed.

Stop for a day. Stay for a year. Here is The last minute you will ever pocket. The clock will repossess Your life.

Suffer the rest of your meaningless years, clichéd, No shade in the sun, defeated further every day—life is A sentence of death by slow torture. Just a Turn of a key, a simple injection—but a leap against faith Is a leap into hell.

Started the day pouring part of a can Over the hunger, felt the emptiness squeeze inside me. Nowhere to hide, and I can’t run Much further, either. Out of the void, forms a deepening dread. After breakfast, not much to eat, still I Nervously cleaned out. Oh, I’d love to swerve again to a pleasant place, But I’ve likely exhausted all my blessings. I’ll be there, but I’ll be unprepared, And the underwear for the laundry disappeared— The only good pair, no money for a new pack. Please excuse the disappearance Of a better man, who grew up and gave way To me. Oh, a cave would be a nice place, with a few Amenities. Where do those come from? Hard work, which I should’ve done, but I had to spin out something meaningless. Oh, I’ll write myself into the grave.

Belly burn—the crawl to hell becomes a little swifter, switch a meaningless pleasure

For meaningless pain, sometime. Life, drag me slowly from your car so I may smell Your fumes, and celebrate our gaseous state. Every day can be a pleasant morning. Speed us up, and I will mourn our transience. Or travel barefoot the gravelly road To the grave. I would’ve saved you something of mine, but all I could leave behind Were some pebbles.

Like a burst of gas, I’m ready to quit, lay down on a grassy slope, And let the soft sweet blades whip at my body. O soft slow cloud, take me away, Through a sky that doesn’t moan anymore. There’s a stronger breeze. The grass encircles the sky in furious green flame. Where I’ll find myself when this dizziness passes, I’m still uncertain. Hope for Heaven, Expect Hell. Oblivion sounds nice enough. Maybe I’ll end up at the bottom of the slope, Someone looking over me, calling me A fool.

Addicts suffer for their addictions, Battle no battle. Oh, but we got time, before our next Last ride. But we’ve seen the best, and we’re going down, Down, down. I’m an obsessive compulsive addict of Time, and I can’t respect a deadline anymore. I’ve been sitting on a frozen pond, pushed across the ice on my ass, Kept out of commission by a combination of laziness and obsession, Destined to make the most of a dim situation. “Oh, but you can change Your destination. Cease your constant caffeination and take these pills. Then come to work for us and be paid.” To bad I kind of like my situation. And as life has no meaning, what’s the point in living? Make a thing and sing a song about the pains it took to make, But when you’re done, you’ll have to leave it all for good. But still you love it, Or some survival instinct thinks within you, believes you should remain. And some Dimming curiosity says another look is worth a climb up the hill. Still, I’ll have to mull this over, probably forever. I’ve made the most of a dull situation.

Now the brightness of the lights is grim. Too much excitement for me.

A similarity between living and dying?— I got one: both involve losing or leaving. --You there, LedgeLife, you better plunge back to earth Or you’ll be pushed. Land in a grave of sorts. Have to claw your way to normal. Do they beat you with their shovels While you’re down? LedgeLife speaks of leaving. He has left before Friends (acquaintances), family (fathers and uncles he’s rarely seen.) Motions and notions. But how can a moth leave its flame? How will he Leave behind heaven with grace? He Probably won’t. He speaks of losing. What has he lost? Nothing. Just yet. It’s next on the list. And the hand that holds the cup and saucer Shakes To leave it on the table. And the head that sat in ledge-life Aches To lose its medicine. To take a walk through city streets Crammed to the brims with better men—a rat Could get killed.

Escapism is a familiar theme for me, a recurring dream I wander onto Habitually. But it will save me no more. It is streaming to a dead end, And I know my self must be a dead friend for me to continue, though I Saved him in the forest once, at the price of my conscience. I am addicted to time. All actions now scream at me not to be done.

Thus acknowledging junkie failure to commit, shall I admit myself? There are Jails for people like me. They would force me to work, and Work me. My self must be a dead friend. Thus acknowledging junkie defeat, a surrender to circumstance—I always went Where time took me. My angels and demons have danced around me for so long. Now they will watch as I stumble through hell.

I feel lethargic. Faces in the trash. What did I have again? Cherries. The new oven, white, of course, Bears the BURNER ON light Burning brightly, lending a sense of Youth at heart and hearth and home, Warm

ravioli— I’m cooking beans.

A conspicuous

cherry pit, like a

Bloodied ear.

What did I have again?

Cherries. Blore!

Blaar!

Blurr!

Bleary day.

Now I

Made a decision. It slipped my mind. Then it tripped me.

Didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t I Cut my body, Blew the wound On a wall, Went outside, and a dog Chewed the remains of the shell. My soul flew halfway nowhere.

Unable to keep the rhythm going, on Last breaths, Just weep As your time bleeds away. Watch the world spin Meaningless, but still

Beautiful in your youth, Feeling Alone. Fate is riding on quiet waters Up to your bare feet in the sand. It will It will Drown you. Still you wait. Sit. Wait.

Miscellaneous Lines

Seize the bull by the veins.

Let me learn from you, O drunk and ruined one. Blades of grass, And a dry, broken staff, I look old in this angle, by this light, Looking sideways in a darkened screen. My eyes wear dark flowing capes— Congratulations, O super hero, for keeping the Sandman At bay, O sleepless beauty, to all the world, despondent. Once was a pharaoh, given twelve years to sit over his empire, Chose to double his reign by keeping awake the entire time. Did he succeed? I don’t remember. Probably dosed in his chair. Was he deposed for sleep on the job? Who knows? Who cares? But who could’ve deposed him? Who cares? He was a god among men and women. Who cares? He will rise up again, with plagues and locusts. No he won’t. Who cares, anyway?

Another night in the crazy shrine, Dust and strands giving way to gravity, falling luxuriously slow Upon the keyboard sitting poised to be tapped. Another line slips into my brain. I dip into the paints and flap another flying blot of blood, so thin, swift, wistless— Wit without a cause. Shit Is rather frank, and clotted—got something stuck up your nose. It’s a Scab. Something to heal you’ve scratched at for years. I understand.

We all fall into our own blood work when burned sometimes, sometimes pull up Something brown and crusted, nasty tongue Slippers in a bathroom, slipped off of slimy footing—you could slip in the tub. The ugly truth, set loose, will set you free To fly Through. But look at me, I just told you I’d throw you. Did not mean that. But we go off on tangents. And the trigger finger is Always happy, sometimes stupid, often Absentminded.

Just Pepper the paper— Miscellaneous lines— Loud!— Poke a hole in a wide space of white. Thread a string. Attach a joke. Let slippery things slide Through a drain. A rainy day can last all Day.

Pray for guidance if you choose.

You can hide in a closet ‘till your steam come rolling out.

I like a room sparsely furnished

in the verdance of the Summer months, Mama, where I can be free with my dripping tea and my running brain, while the dust is always settling, and the mold is best of friends, and life is looking old, but that’s alright, because the breeze sweetly whispers soulful songs, and I can see the rainbow in the gray, as the tea and citrus is flowing through me “like a warm knife through butter,” I am floating as an essence on the waters of the world.

Mama doesn’t know about No commitment. She always had something to do. Mama doesn’t know about Taking no hits. She always felt a little blue. Mama doesn’t know about No emotion but hate. She always strove to love. Mama doesn’t know about

No devotion. She always kept her head above. But Mama doesn’t know That it really don’t matter, If the water’s above or below, That we’re all just leaves Which fall from some trees, As a wind begins to blow.

Surely you must hide the meaning it must surely have— Guess everyone wants an interesting read. Surely you must sit around scholarly, claiming a black hat is more Than a black hat. I guess you must suppose a purpose for all your Years of education. Otherwise you might lose your appetite in bitterness. And where would our literary world be, with all its scholars hurling?

Just Shitting stanzas, Objects in the moment Appear monstrous at first, But we become accustomed as Friendliness accrues.

It is

A piece of soft plastic, black tipped,

Sticking up on an open pack of TP. O to be a machine that paints things black Serenely—but I have my substitute. Shitting stanzas Is the finest thing I can do with my life, Inhale the moment, pull a smile out of nowhere.

I am a weed growing at a tree’s feet. I can withstand the falling needles. But set me up with a date with a spade, And you’d better cut me down to the roots, Or I will take my vengeance by force. Of course, I can’t really run, but I’ll send out my signal for trouble— Which you have graphed, but cannot translate yet—send for weeds To take flight and sprout all over this lawn. Attack again, and we’ll Send out for more. There are trillions of us In the surrounding area.

Influence Well, he sells you down a river, Tells you not to give a damn What they say about the scrambled eggs and ham. You stammer wait a minute what do I do? He says do whatever you choose To do. Believe, Or don’t believe, As the breeze blows through the leaves, and fish for Whatever you wish for, For this is the river called, “Whatever,” And all things are relative.

Now, he takes you to a lake, Tells you the world’s a fake. The heart and soul Will lead you to the proper goal. What goal? You ask, And he says your only task Is to bask in the waves Of simple things coming your way, And by the way fish for Whatever you wish for, For this is the lake called, “Taking Time.” Sit here, make a rhyme. And he leads you to an ocean, Feeds you the notion freedom’s All you need to need. But indeed, you begin to think, Do fish have philosophies in tanks? What do they think all day, Every day? Oh, but no one listens to them, anyway. And you sway in this ocean called, “Encroaching Loneliness.” Lay here, take a rest.

Have you heard— A will A way A pill A pay A bill A play On words?

“If you don’t accept me here, I’m happy where I am.”

That’s nice. Filling space of time. I’m Watching the window, this time. Before, I Could’ve run into him many times, just Glass doorway. Work hard, Good man, Two-elevators living. Hurry, hurry, work your ass off, Sometimes lean on— This is a balance that Bellies food

and credence.

Arising any given day, Accept the small curses falling upon you As all in order, well in hand. Every rose needs rainy days. Frame the frozen moments When things change. Take a challenge And use it. It’s a beautiful day. Every green thing sways in the breeze. But oh, let’s all be trees. Words of wisdom come and go As twisted sheets of tin foil. Mind— The wind will always take its ease, While blowing as it please.

standing in the

For every laugh there is a groan, For every path, a stumbling stone, For every half, a half unknown Lying in wait to sour the sweet, Shower on the sunny retreat, Cower at the meet-and-greet. And Blessing can be Curse disguisedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; And sometimes lessons of the Wise, A Guessing Fool can render lies.

It isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t worth a dime. Awaken from a dream to rise And slide. Blood rolls down the hill On both sides, Smoke and dust and ashes in the air. Do we really care for the crosses we bear? Do they make us rich or strong Or wise? Does the cloud make the lining brighter? Just a flash of shining silver in the gray.

Yes, of course, I’ve heard the cliché. But every cycle spins around again. And rain will always fall from heavy clouds, Silver kissing concrete, grass, and sea.

Toe nails night clothes Greasy hair facial scarring Cold absent stares Frightful spurts, crying screaming “Signifying nothing” Like Shakespeare’s “tale told by an idiot,” Or Poe’s “fever called ‘living,’” a madness, Running in circles is all our race seems to do Through the ages, Like Einstein’s “Insanity is…” Any apparently new inventions are sparks thrown by flint Scraped on a wheel.

--So we might as well enjoy the simple things,

Weather they open doorways to the complex or not, And tread the paths of whimsy, Weather the bread crumb trails lead to genius Or geraniums. We’re all on a flimsy treadmill anyway, Dancing in a field of the great Farm, so, The cosmic, the common, the comical— Are all really common, anyway, And we may as well pause to ponder, for, the Good Lord And someone know all the paths of wandering, like the quiet Of a still pond.

Was a soft log for a pillow, And a fog fell over the hill. Oh, You should have seen it. It never was. But it was where I was. Let’s all roll down the hill, shall we, Saying, “Weeeeeeee!” The ground below’s another pillow. Plop! --But the dream, it didn’t stop, And the land went on forever, And a river streamed to nowhere, From nowhere. Still it was. Just because.

“Jack and Jill went up the hill,” While Jack and Jim went 'round the rim And brimmed their cups, and had their fill.

Jack and Jane at home, remained, But Jack and John went on and on, And conned 'lil Jane to a walk in the rain. Jack and Joan were long gone, long gone, By the time Jack and Jordan could look for them, And failing, lay down, wailing and moaning. Jack and June struck up a tune, And Jack and Jud waltzed to a jukebox—THUD! Jack and Janice sat and swooned. Jack and Julie, acquainted quite newly, Spoke to Jack and Jules, who laid out all the rules, And said, cooly: “Jack and Jesus would be grievous If you went and played today.” They played anyway, And Jack and Jesus went to pieces. And Jack, and Jack himself, went back, “To the place from whence he came,” sat back, And changed his name.

The morning’s raining sunlight, washing on the hoods of parked cars, Again. There may be nothing to complain about, as the worst is just around, Behind, and ahead of us. And the raining morning sunlight is washing on the hoods of Crashed cars, and some of the survivors are dancing in the ashes of a highway fire. Now skin-deep in musical suicide, while the peaches are in season, And they’re bleeding, dripping from the tree. Now wading through a shallow tide, shin-deep in fluid suicide, Washing up on a crowded beach—don’t bleach the stains they make, A mincemeat wedge Of flesh,

And lemon drops Of blood, While keeping constant vigil For a wish, Until the music stops For good.

Go to bed when things run slowly. Ooze out between dawn and noon, Confused and angry at the noise, a little Woozy, but alright. Big, bright swishy day Today, massive waves. In Heaven sleep loss Must be vanity—for the sake of a trip—no troubling news To visit a bout of tardiness, and the pains that breed a Late streak felt but not insulted—if pain is meaning, perhaps instead even Admired—here is a man mired.

Rain in the closet, men in pinstripes and fedoras Pounding fists on desks, impatiently waiting payment Acid fedora man walks the streets. From up his suit his throat Glows green. The air is thick with yellow glue. A glue of life— One ignores it. One abuses it. Both are blue. Well, “keep this under your hat”—but at friendly meetings you must Lift it, and certainly at church—

Better use a pocket. For your pain. Just Keep your rainy days in the closet, and your Rainbows of epiphany—why should you be so colorful And bright? The rainbow was a promise on pain of death. Don’t make rainbows you can’t keep.

Look, there’s another poor soul, dropping dead of Prudence. But don’t put him in a bed with a door, yet—miracles of Modern medicine—he can do it all again. Yes, he can elude extinction, keep hanging on, like sleep does The insomniac. --Oh, he’ll have to fall

Reaching for a dream of tempting forbiddance, the young woman tip-toes on a T-shirt caper through the kitchen for a glass of moonlit water,

--sometime.

slipping past her sofa-sleeping stepfather. Lighten the burden a little: it’s an uncle; place her in the company of relatives or near strangers in the verdance of a summer evening. Set the scene To the serenade of cicadas in heat.

I am relaxed as the cool breeze flows around and through me, Cycles and collects. It tastes the souls of our places and is intimate With us of ourselves and others. Change passes on the road beside a sidewalk remnant, Like a cool aluminum dream. Hello, cool roller. I see it roll ‘till it kicks a tall building. Rolling back— Slip a penny through the top and drink to Lincoln. Think of mania, depression—Time Is a human being.

The seed of a dandelion floats in the breeze. Pray for a tree, or pay for a weed. They are the same when unwanted. Shovel the earth if you love it, or need Money. I don’t much mind weeds, but Someone here does. And to pull a small tree

Between blooming blue flowers is Easier than I’d thought. But the green sea of weeds now Requires precision, and you may “pray for rain” as the sun Throws down heat. Go behind the garage to spade under shade, And say, “Hello, lazy knees.” Don’t work. Don’t run. Don’t live. Don’t love. And As I knelt despairing my knees, I was touched by A sparrow, as it just brushed past me to land under ferns. A tick almost matching the skin of an onion I pulled Could crawl through the wound I received scraping concrete. In the public of bugs, everyone does his or her own business. But a bee thinks I’m sweet, and won’t leave me alone. I guess that makes me her business. My blood is a mosquito’s business. My flesh is a tick’s business.

Out a Window in Soft Rain A squirrel high-white-ringed-tailing it, across the green, Behind the garage, A blackbird, quite leisurely sweeping the air, ‘till it reaches A tree. The squirrel, returning now across the lawn, poking around, decides to climb up A tree, finds a branch to chew nuts on. As the rain becomes heavier, the blackbird remains on its limb At the top. Looking back at the squirrel, I see it has vanished again, into the gray Somewhere. The rain has ceased falling now, and a little sparrow sits in the squirrel’s tree, Shits from a skinny branch.

I don’t want a grinning floor, any more than you’d a Groaning ceiling, or a corner bearded with mildew. You wouldn’t believe me, but I tell you this floor is Starting to crack its maw. Everything’s going to fall To the floor below. And then, who knows what? O, take me down to lower ground, where if anything falls, Anyone can sense its descending, all being on the same sweet Flat page. O, take me down to lower ground. This sweet great height has Made me sour.

Winter A dark beige car rolled through a narrow nowhere lane between Two sides of white: the noisy left and the busy right. My “poetic” moments are usually Un-political, Yet quite obvious—on the left someone was shoveling, The sound of shovel scraping driveway turning my head, As I was shoveling too, and fro, to and fro, to and fro on the sidewalk. On the right was a YMCA parking lot. My “poetic” moments are usually un-political, Yet quite obvious. The lack of a title helps maintain a little mystery for “The Reader,” but then the pieces sometimes simply “follow suit.” A “good poem” should inspire, not mire in pools of self-feeling, “Droning on.” To the latter end of that, at least, I feel I have succeeded, putting thoughts Succinctly. I admire concision. Here now, I ditch my craft a moment By way of pointed comment, bursting forth in un-poignant confessionalism. Oh, the confessions of a man you Don’t know exists…

The Minnesota poet and the Boston Harbor bard both

Leave their respective docks and head down to the bar. But why here, at this foreign port of call? --Source material. The work of the bard is never done until he’s dead --Or the dawn of a dream. And though a poet lose his train of thought, He doesn’t stop. He hops a caravan, trades his camel For a horse, on which he rides to find another train. (Or hijack someone else’s.) Take that train. The one going nowhere, just Sitting, steaming up its stack. But oh, an engine ever at rest just loves to gather rust. And as your engine begins to dry, you’ll note That every shining plane has already been flown, And every speedy ship has sailed. It’s the dawn of a dream. So the Minnesota poet and the harbor bard Are spending the end at the bar. A foreign rain is pouring on their ports of call. Their wheels have ceased motion, and they’ve fallen off their trains. But devotion will swing a revolving door. Over the dune A caravan comes.

Things That Aren’t, in My Experience, While Making Good-Looking Couples on Paper: Eating tuna while reading Poe. Tuna fish and poesy Blues. I’m Ditching the title here. Poesies aren’t always rosy, sweet or sour, Light or dark. I like poetry’s gray areas, Where one may water a seed, and plant a rainbow, as I’m

Letting the title slide back in. (Scratching head.) Actually, just

scratch the title completely.

(Scratching head.) In fact, I’m out of gas or juice. My goose is Burnt. My blood is brown. I’m ready to Move on

run off

slip away.