i often wonder if i could do it all again
all of it
change things i've said at the wrong time to the wrong person
change things i've thought at the right time in the wrong place
change who i belonged to
changed who i wish i was
change what i have become
but if i change it then i wouldn’t have watched or read or listened to something for the first time
i wouldn't have connected those dots
i wouldn't have felt that way about something so detached from my reality
i wouldn't have felt any of it
i wouldn't have seen the first and last episode of that show and screamed at my phone when iwas fourteen
i wouldn't have listened to that song and cried under my covers at sixteen
dust to dust
dust
singular specks in this vast realm, singular specks unnoticed in this vast realm
unnoticed until gone
until gone, these specks were once the walls of a city, the chief of the guards, a book, a great tree
a great tree maybe stood tall and proud; floushiring - or perhaps a great tree slumped and withering; accepting
accepting of a time that would now be theirs
a time which only approaches when light turns to streaks, when chips become cracks become holes
holes
holes left in the walls, in the people, in the words, in the realm itself
and those holes will be filled
they will be filled with but the remnants of what they once were
they will be filled with dust
boldness is what i'm told
coldness is what i've returned
for the bold must be brave
yet the cold stay sane
for the coldness of stone harbors great secrets
for the coldness of stone stays forever a fortress
the fort defend from those which are bold
and the bold only bleed onto cold stone walls
leaving only the victors and vain
to retell the bold's doomed name
and the resounding echo of nothing seemed to mean everything to me
from the darkness to my own breath
everything seemed detached yet wholly
mine
things hadn't been like this in a while
where everything seemed to be nothing
and nothing was everywhere
and everywhere was only this small space of
me
i was nothing
i was everything
i was detached
i was everywhere
i was breathing
and it echoed
it echoed
i often stare at that streetlight outside my window
i wonder what it has seen
i wonder what it hasn't
i wonder if the moonlight knows that it can't make it through the clouds
i wonder if it knows the only seeable things are in that little circle
i wonder whether that circle is taunting or welcoming
i wonder why that circle seems so different than in day
i wonder why it prompts me to run, in what direction i cannot say
i often stare at that streetlight outside my window
i wonder if it stares at me, too
the sky at eight-fifty-one in the night, going up that hill
mind you, the sky was nothing like the night
filled with the last few hours of sun
clouds coated in a sliver of gold and seeming like foam on waves
an endless ocean of blue, ivory, and all things golden
it was calm
it was peaceful
it was comforting, despite the circumstances
it was coming home, whatever it was
Early morning voices came
from up the hill outside my office window,
where there’s another row of condos—
exotic, relaxed voices, unusually alive.
I also heard raking, and imagined
these unseen neighbors
removing leaves on the patio
where they might have had
drinks last night. They spoke
sometimes in English with accents
that might have been French,
and sometimes in another tongue
that sounded French, as well.
Their conversation was leisurely,
then lively, humorous at times,
sometimes flirtatious: It spoke
We had a dentist speak
at the anti-war rally
we organized, we young men
home from college
in the summer of ’68
trying to legitimize ourselves
in the eyes of our parents,
even as we turned activist.
We held a car wash
to raise funds.
When I wrote articles
about the war, I quoted
businessmen, as though they
were the only real gauge
of decent humanity.
I grew my hair a little,
The boats have begun to arrive
to carry us on to the next journey,
over the hills, across the sea
to what we cannot see
we who were
recently so young,
new world shining in our eyes
and now, after the proverbial
eyeblink which no poet can articulate
and no father convey to his child,
we prepare for the next journey,
aware of how far short
we fell of our dreams,
did not transform
the world for all to come.
They told us upholders
So many live
in such desperation,
they believe mass murder
will solve their problems
or bring some satisfaction
of revenge.
How does our world even survive
in the pressure cooker
of billions’ ongoing destinies,
coupled with so much
deep ignorance?
But the sun
is patient with us,
returning every day
so we may try
to grope our way.
On a long, long journey,
even if you prepare,
all your provisions run out.
Even if you’re skilled at wayfaring,
all you know gets used up.
Though you’ve gone on many test runs,
you find yourself in totally new situations.
Your vast repertoire of responses,
has become old, useless habit.
Now what?
Helpless, you go on.
This is the test.
Where is the new
beginning?
Listen to the mouth of your wound.
If you hear nothing, listen more closely.
The wound has a voice.
It will tell you
all you need to know.