Stay away from the gaps.
I consider these words then intentionally
Step into the in between.
A bird flies on the wing; a branch sways in the wind.
I hear the sharp notes of a violin, the warning whistle of the noon train.
Where are these things In the halt from inhale to exhale?
Snap your fingers, and they are gone.
I am not here. I am not there. I am not.
When I went for a walk,
I came to a fork in the road.
This is not a metaphor.
A silver utensil lay on the pavement,
Tines upward and pointing straight ahead.
As I reached down to pick it up,
I heard the mocking laughter of Hecate,
Goddess of the crossroads.
Foolish mortal, open your eyes.
I followed the branch on the left
Never to be seen again.
This is what happens when we tell the truth.
From our mouths fly gobs of flesh and splinters of bone.
We flay ourselves from the inside out
To stand before others without our skin.
The cuts inflicted by words used with intent
Drip with definitional ichor.
Are you a deity in your own regard,
To leak divine fluid that flows with gifts?
Are you a mortal among the rest,
To discharge weak liquid that drains away life?
However you are, you bleed.
We all see this but choose not to know
That our eyes are open yet blindly opaque
That our hands are dripping with shared gore
That our feet are standing on infinite decay.
And even our quietest voices
Scream with a deafening destructive howl.
Time runs on, but our time is running out.
Agamemnon is returning to Mycenae,
Cassandra by his side.
The sails billow and tauten,
the hastening winds driving the ship onwards.
When he leans from the bow,
Does he taste the salt tears of Iphigenia?
When a sudden trough shakes the vessel,
Does he remember her terror?
Cassandra does, but her cries go unheeded,
Stifled by Apollo’s cruel regard.
The Erinyes murmur with the waves,
The curse of the gods on this family woven indelibly.
Whether he is blinded by arrogance or ignorance,
Small matter either, for his fate remains fixed.
Clytemnestra is waiting with her axe
And a mother’s implacable fury,
While on her is fixed Electra’s pitiless gaze.
O Atreides, each of you is born on a funeral pyre
With the cold laughter of the gods your chorus.
Good will not prevail here,
Only sorrow and sorrow and sorrow.
What do you expect?
Niceties and pretty words
Tied round into a neat bouquet,
Bound with sweet sentiment?
Look elsewhere then.
You can find this with ease
On shop placards and inspirational clothing.
I do not provide that facile comfort
Or join my voice to the specious clamor.
Only seek my work if you care to find
The hidden barb that wakes us in the night,
The grinning skull that lives within our mirror,
The sharp dagger we carry behind our backs.
Kindness, beauty, and truth dance around us,
Held in the cries of dying children,
The perfumed stench of garbage mounds,
And the glint of light off the barrel of a gun.
We turn back to our familiar dramas, our distracting entertainments,
our serious gardening, our daily concerns.
We forget, forget, and forget again.
Of course we do, in our commonplace struggles.
Still this knowledge remains.
I won’t write it away.
Not even for your smile.
This is what happened.
I went to cross the street.
I took one step off the curb.
I was in a different country.
I did not know the people.
I could not understand them.
I read their kindness in their eyes.
I hope they saw the same in mine.
I wandered lost on empty streets.
I listened to hear familiar birdsong.
No avail, no avail.
I turned to see a passing train.
I crossed the tracks.
I stumbled on the uneven road.
I was once again on familiar ground.
Nothing had changed.
Except me.
I am a stranger now.
Unseen, unheard.
My footprints disappear in the grass.
and in your time of glory,
be it a public triumph with roaring crowds
or a small glance at a crafted ring,
where do you go?
dip deeply into life’s pleasures and sorrows,
seeking to outrun the whisper of mortality?
memento mori, so live to the limits?
measure your days with careful judgement and thoughtful speech,
the better to hold lightly to this life?
gam zeh yaavor, so consider consequences?
either way, you die.
/
I come now to the end.
The harness that binds me fast to the cart
Of this changing world has loosened.
I glance backwards once
To glimpse the detritus of my life lived:
The tattered loves, shopworn dreams, and bitter hopes.
Turning, I shrug off the fraying bonds
And step away from all I’ve held, such a dear heavy burden.
Lighter and with an easier breath,
I laugh, snap my fingers, and disappear.
Again I walk the loneliest streets,
Stumbling over the rough pavement
Or perhaps my own grief.
I listen to the clangor
Of the railroad being rebuilt
And wonder if I could do that
With the worn out structure of my heart.
I shake my head at this and say no.
Now I’m drinking black coffee in a bare room,
Reading the savage words of Aeschylus
And occasionally pausing to look out the window
At the vast indifferent city night.
This is where I’ve always lived.
This is where I’ll die.
When I was a child, I lived by the sea.
I swam in its waters and played on its shores.
Grey-bearded cypress trees and ancient oaks
Were my beloved friends,
And sea serpents taught me the beginnings of wisdom.
Now I live in the mountains far from any ocean.
I walk on their trails and gaze at their peaks.
Brightly garbed maples and hickory trees
Are my present companions,
And the bones of the earth counsel me on patience.
On a walk I picked up a stone and held it to my ear.
I did not hear the roar of vast waves.
But I did hear faint echoes of half-forgotten susurrations
Reminding me that I am loved.
The past is with us always.
