I practiced from the very beginning
machines made me breathe
strangers touched me with love
for my first three months these sustained me
gave me reason to return again and again
I did not know I was not machine
unrelated to the always present gentle hands
I have never forgotten those earliest teachers
and now dying gets easier every time
ghosts of yesterday linger in alleys
spirits of might have been drift through streets
shards of broken dreams glint on sidewalks
tatters of abandoned hopes hang in storefronts
we could have gathered all to eat real food around a common table
chose instead for some to feast and others beg
found acceptable for those who have
to laugh in derisive disregard at those who lack
indeed to deny them room in any stable
those all being filled by brass calves
soon to be paraded out by fools as gold
and children starve
the scent of smoke lingers in the alley
the restaurant has been gone for awhile
the owner saw the writing on the wall
shiny dollar signs scrawled by new money
incomers remake the town into their own image
wealth management firms with financial planners
luxury sports with concierge golf
rooftop bars with small plated precious food
soon they’ll build themselves a place of worship
inside will be a golden calf
ground underfoot heralds a train
prolonged horn sounds industrial grief
mechanical death has already occurred
obsolete car drags obsolete car
birds pull silence up from dirt
they do not mourn the shaking passage of time
theropod wings are much older than shaped metal
here the antechamber
a dreary room small and drab
unfurnished lit only by a neon light
flickering threatening to go out
the floor covered by a slick of mud
tracked from other peoples’ shoes
once this seemed the world
brilliant views of an endless sky
a sun that shone on verdant fields
now older and my eyes fail
clearly the illusions fade
know where I wait and why
(The title is a quote from a U.S. State-in the Deepest South-Delegate)
these new gods, deities of flash and cash
delight in human sacrifice as they stride across the world,
our backs their stepping stones, our faces to the ground.
we sing in worship, songs shouting possession;
we groan in pain, cries seeking recognition.
both go unheard by the hard indifferent dirt
and the gods pay no heed at all.
why should they, made in our image?
I say to this hand in disbelief
whose are you, to what body do you belong
likewise to these words that you read
whose are you, what hand wrote you
you are not mine, neither hand nor words
how can I who do not exist
have either of these things
you are not mine, neither hand nor words
how can I who do not exist
have either of these things
yet here they are, and I would not be
do you want them
does it matter that I have none to follow
a bare branch that never wanted leaves
but said to birds and insects and other things
here if you wish to make a home
none would remain or not for long
that did not matter was not the point
I offered what I had
now burn me down to ash
<dedicated to Richard>
consider loss and gain
grief yes in so many ways
seems to outweigh the world
then one brief kindness caught in the rush
tips the balance of the scales
the heart of compassion lighter ever
than the heavy feather of illusory truth
each of us has lifted a burden for someone
each moment each day each encounter
your time of listening, your hour of hearing
provides a gentler land
thank you thank you thank you
he saved me from desperation
train trestle desolate water razor edge
perhaps discerned, I never knew
he called me over to join him
warm smile and gentle handshake
such generous welcome brought tears
he nodded, “it’s okay to cry”
we talked about childhood pain and getting old
he died, and I mourn that I never told him
he died, and I mourn that he is not here
he died, and I will always rejoice
that I knew him as a friend
