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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.