Some folks finish a Great American Novel
And wonder what the movie will be like.
I wonder why are dogs “domesticated”
But can’t make my bed?
Too often the guts of the story
Are like the middle of a doughnut
A great raconteur once declaimed.
Are where it went wrong I say.
Besides, no one hitchhikes anymore,
Where is there to hitch a hike to
That hasn’t been mapped?
If there’s a God in Heaven
The thumbs will take care of themselves.
The Great American Novel?
I’m not so sure about…
Willy Nilly is a good bloke
But I got to stop following him round.
Like last night
I woke up this morning
To a busted fence out back
Like someone took a beer bottle
To an old man’s weathered smile
Only to realize
That that old man was
Someone very very close to me.
And I know Will
He didn’t mean it
But just the same
When I picked up the splintered wood
Like knocked over tombstones
Will, he was nowhere to be found.
Practicing Metta is the opposite of picking and choosing. Picking and choosing is evaluating and establishing a hierarchy. One vs. another. Terrorists pick and choose. There should be no ladder. Only a horizon. With a ladder someone is above or below you. On the horizon there are people to your left, right and all around. A ladder is a straight line. The horizon may look like a ladder fallen on its side when it is really a circle. A circle holds more than a straight line. But the choice is ours.
Does the dog know
The size of the ocean
In which he or she swims?
One never knows.
They don’t talk.
Some take to it
Like a cat to a side-car
Their noses pinching the breeze.
See, it’s like their tv
Someone says to me
As I exhale good thoughts
Into my water wings
And head down to the hotel pool.
Thoughts crowd my head
Like cotton candy in a coal mine
Silent with birdsong.
I’ve had that conversation, twice.
I want to be
On the other end.
Valise packed &
Train ticket in hand.
But first, you know if she’s seeing someone?
In the petri dish
Of economy class
A woman sleeps sick
Next to me
Unaware of the Charles Simic poems I’ve read
Or how out of
The corner of my eye
I watch her breast heave and sigh
Fat hands coupled over the slack buckle
A scarf covering her mouth like a fashionable thief
But heavier than I like
What is that warmth like?
Like a child sent to bed with a fever?
I’ll never know…
We land in Houston in twenty minutes…
Depression taught me how to be alone. It doesn’t always feel good but you know inherently what it is after a while if you make it that far and it doesn’t always sit well with you but imagine folks who don’t know how to be alone or can’t accept loneliness as part of their lives or who need constant stimulation and attention to stave off what is just denial of their own humanity because as much as we’d all like to accentuate the positive and pick our spots I think we’re most human experiencing the gamut, the full spectrum of emotions since sometimes the black dog bites you in the ass and sometimes he licks your face because, you know, maybe he wasn’t feeling too hot either.