And so I wake in bed
at dawn
under knotted covers
the heat blasting from the giant vent by the bed
and sense
what there is
to what there is
stretching the wrists
breathing
listening
thinking
each point
popping out
turned to a thing
blooming and dying
before the next.
And if you slow down just barely enough
for a glimpse
of the big picture,
it finally becomes possible
after all that water
under all them bridges,
through all the swamps,
for all these eons,
to get
how truly immaterial
and incomplete
the feelings,
and perceptions,
and voices,
and ideas,
and centralities,
and egos were
as compared
to the everything else
that isn’t a thing at all
oozing along
on its way
to the truth
that lies
in the pivot
of nothingness.
Everything ever
in all time
and all space
brings itself
to this
precise
moment
which itself
like the small end
of a funnel
explodes
whatever
through it
and on
to the next
precise
moment
within which
everything
else
again
pops along
in one
long
ever changing
cacophony
of now
as if
it were all
meant
to be.
We want to think
there’s the moment
way back when
we realize we got to be done
and put down the bottle or the pipe or whatever
and the rest is history.
We want to believe
them problems we had
were caused
by the whatever
now’s put down
and so after getting clear
of such debris
and taking a stab
at trying to fix
the shit that went down
before we put down,
now we’re really done.
And you see folks
who cling as tenaciously
to these ideas
as they probably did
to their old ideas
so that just like the angry drunks and addicts
before,
they’re still
pissed off
about the what now
that’s crammed
down deep
just as tight and stuck
as back then,
and though they may not freeze
under the bridges
or drown in their own blood
like might have been,
its still
not a pretty sight
to behold.
I seen them
pound on tables
about humility
and serenity,
scaring the crap out of newbies
and luring away the gullible ones
we all are
most of the time in our lives.
When I put down
it was nice for awhile, too,
being sober and all,
but before long
the reasons
getting fucked up
was a good idea
in the first place
came creeping back
like a cat in the morning
looking guilty
about the night before,
and it scared the shit out of me.
Still does.
Because that stuff
is the stuff
I still ain’t got
out of my system yet,
haven’t touched
and barely even have
a clue.
All the clarity in the world
about how crappy
using for its
medicinal value was
doesn’t do a damn thing
for the stew in the pot
climbing higher
boiling over
and snuffing out
whatever heat
the meager flame
of mere sobriety
emits.
And I don’t want
to pound no tables.
nor scream and cry,
or spout off passages
from sacred texts
whenever
the pain flows.
Because that’s not enough
to have
a life worth living.
And I don’t think
there lies in me
another
whatever it takes
to clean up the mess
all over the floor
again,
which means
the time now comes
for the stuff the lies
down deep within
to get a little air
and a look or two,
perhaps with an eye
towards making friends
with who I am
become today.
And so
there comes
a time
when what
you drank for
comes a knocking.
It might be the same night
as that last swig of whiskey,
or ten years on
down the road,
catching by the short hairs
whatever you think you became
and giving it a good shake,
like some demented child
in an angry fit.
I been all relapsed now
for a good three or four months,
not with liquor
but the same damn
craving demanding insisting,
in another guise.
Its clinging mind
the petulant kid
and the dog that will not sit,
but no matter -
there’s no difference
between this and that
when it comes
to the struggle
between what there is
and what there ain’t
within the delusional mind
of a self defined
broken toy such as me
or you
or anyone else.
And so the choice arises
to seek sweet clarity
in all its painful sorrow-glory,
or circle back around
for another go
at the mud pit,
until the time
where even I
can no longer deny
the truth
that whatever was there
for hat hanging
and the pin of hope
didn’t work
just as much
and just as bad
as anything I might have drunk
all them years ago
just yesterday.
Though it started with the woman
I fell in love with a few months ago,
who couldn’t keep up,
I don’t know that I blame her,
since with the way these emotions
flow right now,
I can’t keep up either.
It’ll be a beautiful thing,
they say,
when I get a chance
to take a breath
and see from something of a distance,
how stretching back
all the way
past the horizon,
there’s a long line
of unmended hearts
half-buried in the road
ending with that little kid
crying in bed
because somehow he knew
whatever love is
he wasn’t.
Second graders
don’t have words
for any of this.
And 50 year old men
aren’t much better,
at seeing the ego’s lonely
place in the Universe,
watching the house of cards
crashing down,
sensing the coming change
that changes everything,
and knowing
how all the years
and all the words
and all the effort
to make right
the awful pain
of solitude’s incompleteness
has come to the kind of nothing
that frees even jaded hearts
such as mine.
I am an expert at second guessing clarity,
knowing what’s what,
then turning a blind eye.
It happened again
last night,
where I could see
she wasn’t really here,
laying in my bed
all froze up
and just hoping
I’d go to sleep
so she could breathe again,
then denying it
in the morning,
saying it was just me
being neurotic
and making up stuff
that isn’t real.
Had me believing it, too,
sort of,
for awhile,
to the point
where I even apologized
before she said
she really did wish
she’d stayed at home
all along,
which was exactly
what I’d seen
from the get go.
It may be
I’m just a coward,
so afraid of pain
I’d rather pretend
then sit up straight
and face the face
of my own suffering,
though more likely
what this is
is just an old old me
in naive desperate wanting
not to yet again
have to mend
a broken heart.
By pretty much any account
Sonny was an asshole.
None of us ever saw
anyone get in more
petty trouble
in so short a time
as him.
And each time
he landed in jail
I’d get the call
and cringe,
knowing it was all
a load of bogus crap,
someone else’s fault,
and never would have happened
had them other guys not done
whatever it was
that made Sonny
get arrested
in the first place.
I’d listen and nod
and after he stopped to take a breath
try to get a word in
edgewise,
which usually pissed him off
even more
so that by the end
of the conversation
I’d get moved
to the pile of enemies
he kept
in a bag by his bunk.
It hasn’t been cold in October or November here
for a few years,
so the folks that Summer under the bridges
stick around a lot longer
than before,
which is why
when they told me he froze to death
the night before
it was a little surprising
since I didn’t even have my furnace going
and was still wearing t shirts
every day
under my jacket.
But I never did quite drink a 5th a day
nor live on hard ground
down by the river,
where like a frog in a slow heating fry pan,
you probably don’t even notice
being cold in the first place
until the next morning when the shakes
kick in and you got to get up anyway.
So I guess it all makes sense
what happened,
though you just know
Sonny’d say
is was a conspiracy
or something
that led
to his own
demise.
He’d be right, too.
I’m a little walking on sharp tacks
what with
the talk and all,
and the kiss
after the I don’t want
to make this end
we each shared
at the precipice
before not jumping.
So now’s the time
where we see
whatever happens,
with relaxing
and living in
to the other,
or not,
all the while
laying here
as she sleeps,
enjoying the scent
that almost
disappeared.
I dragged my sorry ass out of bed this morning,
slurped down enough coffee
so as not to nod off,
and staggered downstairs to my cushion
in the Zendo,
where I sat
in the dark
just with
a straight back,
teeth together
and the breath
for forty minutes.
There’s no point
to this.
Or better yet,
the point
to this,
is not to have
a point,
or a goal,
or a reason,
to get caught up in.
But ask anyone
and they’ll tell you
how when you’re there
with yourself
early morning
after early morning
for three years running,
something’s bound
to happen,
especially
when you make a little room
there in that space
for whatever it is
that kicks and screams
and leaves you up all night wondering
what the fuck sake happened
that got you
into some 2500 year dead mystic’s
headspace
in the first place.
Which is why
when it dawned on me
how its not just all them
I’ve loved
and ran from
or ran off
who’re gone,
but the ones
still sticking around.
Eventually,
they’ll go too,
just like the things,
and stuff
and places,
and memories,
and whatever else
I’ve used to carefully craft
this delicately balanced semblance
of a life worth living
from the rags and scraps
of lost dreams and childish hope.
Now let’s face it:
this is not,
at face value
the most uplifting realization
to come bounding
through the door of mind
these last few days.
But I’m learning
to take what I get
and be damned glad for it,
which means
this moment of clarity,
after we dispose of its sad sad trappings,
could not be more expressive
of the truth of life and death
were it cast in gold,
wrapped in silk,
and carried
on a silver platter,
which may be why
it still haunts me
here and now
at the end of another day.
He’s ten today.
Fourth grade,
running the yards with the neighbor kids,
exuberance and joy spilling out,
living life from one grand adventure
to the next.
Even the struggles
don’t seem to phase him,
not the injections
or the thing with learning,
or the crazy parents
he somehow inherited.
He’s ten,
and that’s all that matters.
It started with taking back
the laundry basket
with the pillow
and the toothbrush
and the overnight shirt,
where we talked
for just a second
before I walked away
feeling like some kind of zombie
with a spike through my head.
By the next day
there was this panic deal
happening
and the neurotic thinking
that maybe she’d search her heart
and come back around
like in the movies
because I love her,
and want her,
and don’t want to be alone
again,
which in turn
spun back
to that 15 years ago time
when it was last
like this
and I felt the peace
of dreams.
That ended too,
though I stuck it out
a long long time,
just like my Dad
who’s still at it
more than 60 years later.
I’m not as good at this as him though,
and don’t much have the stomach
for love affairs on the side
and huge fights
where nothing,
absolutely nothing,
gets figured out.
So now its a week later
and I’m laying in bed
with this crap churning up
like thick stew does
when you got a good heavy wooden spoon,
where huge chunks pop to the surface,
demanding further review,
thereby taking me all the way back
to when I was six
and one night had a moment of clarity
about what love meant
to these people
raising me,
with their hideous sneaky secrets
to which I was not privy.
We had two families, you know.
There was the one for all them,
and the one with room for me,
though the stuff they had to keep locked down
took so much effort,
there really wasn’t
much left over
for the six year old kid
crying alone in his room
that night,
or the 13 year old
suicidal 8th grader
staying up till dawn
listening to the radio
and writing pornographic love stories
to the first girlfriend
he ever had
before we moved one state over
and never saw again,
or the 10th grader
tripping night after night,
watching the walls breathe,
and wondering when he’d ever
screw in enough courage
to just simply
leave.
I am still those people,
which probably explains
why it is
even the wonderful wonderful
women
I have had the privilege
of loving
did not stick around
to help unpack
this broken toy’s
baggage.
So its no fucking wonder
I am alone again
at 50,
though this is the first time
I’ve done it
sober,
which means
there’s no good choice
but to feel and think
and be
with this pain
and sometimes wonder
how it would have been,
had things
turned out
different.
Well maybe its the last thing
I end up writing
about the woman
that I loved,
though this morning
waking up
again
in the big bed
we used to share
with newspapers and an ashtray
where before
she would lay,
my gut heaves
and the heart aches
at how fast
what I thought we had
crashed down.
It sucks sometimes
being a sentient being
with all the stuff
you have to feel
and see
and think
and know.
And while a drink
or a fuck
or blessed sleep
sure would be nice,
from the place
where only
truth abides,
after all these years
there is the knowing
how the grist
for the mill
of the universe
is not sweet honey
and cinnamon.
Ok, so I got in tight
last Spring
with a woman
who rocked my world
and thought all along
what she did for me
I also did for her
only to find
after a few months
it didn’t work
that way.
And now
being all growed up
and having tried to put an end
to something any fool can see
couldn’t end well
otherwise,
all I think about
is her
and us
and what I wanted
and couldn’t get.
And just like
some street juggler
on a bad day,
once the one thing goes,
so too
goes everything else
you thought before
might stay airborne,
because now
I’m seeing
how tired and pissed
I am about
her
and them others
whose ability
to reach out
and stay connected
was just as bad as mine
or worse,
while in the meantime
its alone time again,
and extra aching
just like back
when I was a kid
and somehow knew
whatever there was
between all them that raised me
didn’t quite
reach to me
down in the basement
all by
myself.
You have to try and remember
the dharma wheel turns best
on the wind of pain,
where all your senses
wire up and vibrate
at such finely tuned frequencies
only the throb of a beating heart
gets heard
over the slowed pacing
of silent reflection
on the path you walk
from birth through death.
This is the time of endless war,
which we read about in books
back in high school literature
but knew would never happen.
This is the time
for thoughtless greed
and taking that
which is not ours.
This is the time
of hallucination
where what we see
and hear and think
doesn’t exist
and never will.
And this is the time
where even those
who are not fighting, stealing,
or dreaming hide
their faces
turned towards
the night.
This is the season of pain,
of emotional insobriety,
of great swooshing rushes of joy
and steep crashing misery
in the deep shadow of long forgotten mines and wells.
This is the immediate muck
of messy love and mortal humanity,
imperfect creatures scrambling for nirvana
all blind and clumsy,
and – though maybe just for me -
the sad realization
that in these years
there has never been
a you
that would not leave,
a place that would not disappear,
a time that does not end.
Impermanence is swift
cries the lion at the gate,
practice with the haste
of burning beings
drowning fire
in the skulls and hearts
of hungry beasts.
And do not lay
your weary head
on pillows scented
with the smoke and sweat
of lovers
who
have
gone.
You remember when you were freaking out
about the big job interview tomorrow
and I wouldn’t come over
because I’d already been there
the day before and needed to be with my boy,
and how hurt you were?
I understand that now.
And that time when the judge ruled against you on custody
and you were desperate for some sort of relief,
even if it meant in bed with me,
and I said no because I thought
that wasn’t a good solution
since we’d only been dating a week in the first place,
and how pissed you were?
I understand that now.
And when that one time came where I didn’t
return your phone calls for two days
even though we always got together on Sundays and Mondays,
and you ached and were so sad?
I understand that now.
And back when I was so distant and vacant
while you wanted to dance around the living room
and think about the future
and kiss and make love and just be
together,
and you were confused until it dawned
what this was all really about?
I understand that now.
There’s not too much
that’s pretty
when it comes to the truth
of disconnected love,
and while I always – just like each of you -
did the best I could at the time,
there just wasn’t that much
in me
to share,
or feel
when what I needed
to do
wasn’t very graceful
or nice
or decent
or loving.
And now
that the shoe’s
on the other foot
there’s not just
this pain now
but the unfelt stuff
from them other times
coming back like ghosts
to haunt
my stupid stupid heart.
There’s this old familiar feeling
of being all fucking alone again
washing over me
today.
It’s not the getting stood up thing
that triggered it, either,
but the way when I ran into her
she acted like its no big deal,
that got me going,
so that when I saw her
at noon
and she seemed like
I wasn’t even there,
it left me all hollowed out
and distant feeling
and I had to leave.
On the way back to where i was going,
I ran into first one friend,
and then another.
They waved
and honked,
and I waved and honked back,
though in fact
it was as if
I was on the wrong end
of a telescope
looking out
at stuff that seemed
farther away
then it really is.
I’m an untethered balloon.
It isn’t a bad thing,
floating around
above all them happy people;
you get to see all kinds of cool stuff.
But every once in awhile,
I get to wondering
what it might feel like
being truly jacked into the grid,
though either because of all them,
or all of me,
that’s never
really ever
going to happen.
Its chaos for me
trying to be
with another person
because when I bring my stuff to the table
and they bring their’s,
I ultimately have no idea
where mine ends and their’s begins,
so that when the caldron starts boiling up a bit,
which always happens when whatever you got’s
worth having,
I lurch first one way and then another,
like a drunken sailor on choppy seas,
all the while missing
the realization,
so obvious to others,
that I’m acting as if
without her,
there won’t
be a me
anymore
at all.
