I have abandoned everything I ever loved
what makes you think I won’t abandon you?
Sunday, May 21, 2017
a life of lies
I write with a serious tone
using serious words
as befits a large, white haired white bearded
man of advancing age
but, there below the surface,
revealed by a scratch or a nick
is a life of lies
The Perfectly Normal Beast
But of course the perfectly normal beast was living right there, in the clump of fallen cedars.
And the perfectly normal beast came out and surprised Hansel and Gretel.
Hansel said “Who are you?”
TPNB said “I’m the perfectly normal beast.”
Gretel said “Sorry but you don’t look perfectly normal to me.”
TPNB said “Well, that’s because I’m a beast. If you were a beast like me you’d probably say that I look normal.”
And Gretel said “That may be true.”
Hansel said “Are you here in the forest to do us harm?”
TPNB answered “Why, if I wanted to do you harm would I lurk in the darkest part of the forest by the fallen cedar trees?”
Hansel had no answer for that.
Then Gretel said “I’m hungry.”
And the PNB said “Are you? I have some sandwiches. Well, they look like sandwiches only they’re made out of pine bark and pine sap. But if you can overlook the pine bark and pine sap part they’re pretty good.”
Hansel said “I don’t wish to complain but I’m having a hard time overlooking the pine bark and pine sap part.”
Gretel agreed silently wishing she hadn’t taken such a voracious bite. Now her teeth were stuck together and her mouth tasted like pine-sol.
Then TPNB said “I guess you don’t like my sandwiches."
And Hasel replied “It’s not that I wish to disparage them but they’re inedible.”
Gretel spat in a most lady-like manner possible but could still only nod in agreement.
And TPNB said “I also have some gingerbread left over from the last time that strange, somewhat older, somewhat unattractive but never-the-less mean and nasty woman in the black pointy hat visited.”
Hansel said: “Do you mean she was a witch?”
TPNB replied: “Well, I don’t wish to generalize.”
The children looked about themselves fearfully!
my gun
take your gun and wave it in the face of the earthquake
take your gun and wave it in the face of the storm
take your gun and shoot all your ghosts dead
take your gun and wave it in the face of your god
The Long Time
I’m not certain if I ever knew my mother
stretching back over the decades
and all that remains are a few scraps,
skin tight over the bones
a few echoes of love and laughter
a few memories of angst and anger
a brittle look, a sad sigh
leading to the last helpless moments
alone and apart I hid
within my selfish world
reaching out occasionally
to grasp at need.
I’m not certain if anyone knew her
proud and private
carefully arranging the outside face
the only one that was allowed
a few times the facade softened
to let reality out or in
a moment of truth among truths
each I hold
on a New Year’s Eve at midnight,
in a violent summer storm,
in a hospital steeped in morphine
dreaming aloud.
I’m not certain if I ever mourned my mother
stretching back over the decades
and all I see are my wants
and what is missing
a few fragments
strewn across the memories,
separated the real from the unreal
the myth from the history
a time when all seemed lost
a time when pain overwhelmed
a time when fear replaced hope
a time when the future stopped.
I’m not certain one can ever know another
disguise is a first nature
time creates truth from the lie
still, at the core, the lie remains
to define life
to exist life
to contain life
to lose life
cold in the coffin of the womb
the fading light of the birth
nursing at the breast of death
preparing for the night.
I’m not certain I recall her then
clutching the final breathes of ancient airs
swaddled in ice to cool the fever
sifting through life’s short memories
a subtle gasp
and life is gone
and I am alone
waiting for nothing
the bright lights brighter than before
the cold room colder than before
stillness in a sea of motion
a phone call to home.
I'm certain a memory clings:
a child has forgotten his homework
a surprise knock at the classroom door
gasps from the children
a murmur of voices and a call to me
and I approach an angel
framed in her halo of beauty
the sun dimmed
as the door closed
again I heard the murmurs
my moment of pride
leading to the last helpless moments.
Willie B. Goode
Deep down Stratford upon Avon, not far from east London
Way back amongst the shrubbery in the green garden
There stood a small mansion made of stone and wood
Where lived an English boy named Willie B. Goode
Who never learned to read or play music so well
But he could write a love sonnet like ringing a bell.
Go, go, go Willie, go
Go, go, Willie B. Goode….
a calendar for god
what is a calendar to a god?
a second
a century
an eon
the ages
all alike
to the hollow eyed being
who set calendars in motion
how can he comprehend time at all?
when he doesn’t bother to wipe the drool from his face
the food crumbs uncombed in his beard
jaw slack
ears unhearing
nose reddened and runny
when does his day begin and end?
when does he wake?
when does he sleep?
does he sleep?
a wink
a nap
a night
a millenium
an eternity
jeg. 12/99
when god died
when I stared at the priest in rote motion
handling the word, the water, the wine
watching the motion of his lips
anticipating each moment and movement
A thought fluttered in my child’s mind
the bottle, the book, the chalice
all the little parts of the act
creating the illusion of being done
the doubt planted itself in the concrete
the gospel, the sermon, the hymn
that made up bulk of my mind
sending out roots through each crevasse
Masked
As a young father
each crisis that arose
threatened to expose me
for the fraud I was
I marveled at the sureness
my own father had shown
and I never wondered
that he had any uncertainty
Then I saw my father old
weakened and dependent
and I wore the mask
of maturity
Inside was a dwarf child
whining and manipulating
crying blackly at the unfair
twisting good bad right wrong
While outside I showed nothing
no good bad right wrong
a steady voice, hand and eye
the lie multiplied again
The mask became a part of me
indeed it became me
and I became my mask
and asked that it be of me
Still now and then
the withered child
rose in rebellion
a thin mewling voice
Nagging at my soul
reminding me of reality
and all I had hidden
and hoped to leave behind
As I become
the weaker older man
I await a son
to rescue me
To don the mask
that life demands
and live within
and again
First
First I will kiss you
deeper and deeper.
Second I will kiss your breasts
longer and longer.
Third I will suck your breasts
softer and softer.
Fourth I will kiss your clitoris
over and over.
Fifth I will lick your vagina
stronger and stronger.
Sixth my penis will push in and out
and in and out and in and out.
Seventh you will climax
again and again.
Eighth we will begin again
and again and again.
I will love you forever.
最初に私はあなたにキスします
深く深く。
第二私はあなたの胸にキスします
長い長い。
第三の私はあなたの胸を吸うでしょう
柔らかく、柔らかめ。
第四の私はあなたのクリトリスにキスします
何度も繰り返し。
第五私はあなたの膣をなめるん
より強く、より強く。
第六私の陰茎が出入りプッシュします
そして内と外との出入り。
第七は、あなたがクライマックスになる
何度も何度も。
第八は、我々は再び開始されます
そして何度も何度も。
私はあなたを永遠に愛する。
Saisho ni watashi wa anata ni kisu shimasu Fukaku fukaku.
Daini watashi wa anata no mune ni kisu shimasu Haihai.
Dai san no watashi wa anata no mune o suudeshou Yawarakaku, yawaraka-me.
Daishi no watashi wa anata no kuritorisu ni kisu shimasu Nando mo kurikaeshi.
Daigo watashi wa anata no chitsu o namerun Yori tsuyoku, yori tsuyoku.
Dairoku watashi no inkei ga deiri pusshu shimasu Soshite uchi to soto to no deiri.
Dainana wa, anata ga kuraimakkusu ni naru Nandomonandomo.
Daihachi wa, wareware wa futatabi kaishi sa remasu Soshite nandomonandomo.
Watashi wa anata o eien ni aisuru.
En primer lugar voy a besarte
más y más profundamente.
En segundo lugar voy a besar tus pechos
más y más.
En tercer lugar voy a chupar los senos
más suave y más suave.
Cuarta besaré tu clítoris
una y otra.
Quinto Voy a lamer la vagina
más fuerte y más fuerte.
Sexto mi pene empujará dentro y fuera
y dentro y fuera y dentro y fuera.
Séptimo que culminará
una y otra vez.
Octava vamos a empezar de nuevo
y una y otra vez.
Te amaré por siempre.
Prima di tutto ti bacerò
sempre più in profondità.
Secondo bacerò i tuoi seni
più a lungo e più a lungo.
Terzo farò succhiare il seno
più morbida e più morbido.
Quarto farò baciare il tuo clitoride
più e più volte.
Quinto farò leccare la vagina
più forte e più forte.
Sesto il mio pene spingerà dentro e fuori
e in e fuori e dentro e fuori.
Settimo si culmine
ancora e ancora.
Ottavo noi ricomincerà
e ancora e ancora.
Ti amerò per sempre.
D'abord, je vais vous embrasser
plus en plus profond.
Deuxièmement, je vais embrasser vos seins
plus en plus longtemps.
Troisième Je vais sucer vos seins
douce et plus souple.
Quatrième je vais embrasser votre clitoris
encore et encore.
Cinquième Je vais lécher le vagin
plus en plus forte.
Sixième mon pénis va pousser dans et hors
et dedans et dehors et dedans et dehors.
Septième vous climax
encore et encore.
Huitième nous allons commencer à nouveau
et encore et encore.
Je vous aimerai toujours.
Zuerst werde ich dich küssen
tiefer und tiefer.
Zweitens werde ich deine Brüste küssen
länger.
Drittens werde ich Ihre Brüste saugen
weicher und weicher.
Viertens werde ich Ihre Klitoris zu küssen
über und über.
Fünfte werde ich Ihre Vagina lecken
stärker.
Sechste meinen Penis in und aus drücken
und ein und aus und ein und aus.
Seventh Sie zum Höhepunkt
wieder.
Achten wir wieder beginnen
und immer wieder.
Ich werde dich immer lieben.
Lines to a Cat in a Window
for Jane
A few minutes have passed since I saw
and this recalled you to me
it was quiet and early
and the cat glanced over me easily
disinterested or disenchanted
or perhaps simply unaware
that I had passed by at all.
The Death of Love
When love is born time lives
and hearts grow and pulse
and eyes see beauty
as no beauty stood before
souls and minds meld as one
and merely to touch excites.
When love dies time stops
and hearts hollowed out whimper
and eyes see withered things
ghosts with brittle bones
souls and minds rendered dim
and merely a touch disgusts.
When love is born time expands
and hearts quicken and sing
and eyes see beauty
as no beauty was before
souls and minds rise as one
and merely to touch creates.
When love dies time drags
and hearts shrink and groan
and eyes see withered things
ghosts with cold bones
souls and minds desiccated
and merely a touch revolts.
When love is born time starts
and hearts leap and swing
and eyes see beauty
as no beauty blinded before
souls and minds entwined as one
and merely to touch awakes.
When love dies time evaporates
and hearts blacken and mewl
and eyes see withered things
ghosts with ghostly bones
souls and minds wasted
and merely a touch kills.
The Human in Me
I wonder about the human in me
what keeps it civilized, what keeps it sane
the animal wrenches and writhes
just below the surface
threatening to emerge
at the least convenient moment
I feel the struggle when I’m at my weakest
where do these thoughts come from
the evil words bubble and roil
scum upon the surface
a sickly foam leaking
at the corners of a silent mouth
I recall all that was once in me
I quiver and gag at the weakness displayed
disavow the evil and anger and ignorance
hidden under a surface
of a shimmering mask
and acknowledge that it was real
I wonder how much of the evil
was of me and by me and for me
and how much was instilled in me
the inclination to hate
the disposition to judge
prejudice and bias mocking reality
I ask should I forgive myself
or forever wallow in guilt and remorse
and lie that it wasn’t really me
it was the animal
it was the untamed
that was in control of my heart
5/17
jeg.
The Call Button
I was flying across the Pacific
and, inadvertently, I pressed the call button
and when the flight attendant appeared
I roused myself out of a mid-flight
half sleep half wake
and apologized and went back to my half state
Another call button arose in my thoughts
it was the early sixties and I was awaiting
a minor operation on a Sunday afternoon
bored in the hospital fascinated by the TV remote
warned to never press
the call button lying snakelike next to my pillow
I must have clicked the television through
its three or four channels a thousand times
sparing a glance every other minute
to the forbidden call button by my head
all night as I half slept
it winked and beckoned in the room's half light
And yet another call button came to my mind
into a cool hospital room as I watched my mother
wrapped in ice to cool the fever
and wrapped in morphine to cool the pain
as breathing stopped
and I reached for the call button by her head
5/13/17
jeg.
the price of life
life is taken away
and life is given back
yet somehow it does not balance
in the heart
i cannot trade one life for another
they all seem to tear away pieces of my heart
when one arrives it demands its share of the love
and when it leaves it takes that share away
how much love
is left in the heart
perhaps that is why it flutters and fumbles at night
when sleepless
the restless unbidden thoughts mingle
that which is present and that which is absent
until the early light brings sleepless to wakeless
and begins a new cycle of pauses and regrets
the bits of love
that have been given away
do they stay in others’ lives forever
or are castaway
a bloody shadow here a dried wisp there
littering the paths that were taken
discarded wantonly disposed of carelessly
and left to mark the trails that could never be
i scatter my life
as i scatter my love
in the knowledge of imbalance
left are memories and tears
furrowing the age of the face until all is barren
twitching vacant loveless heartless and drying
awaiting the savage moment that lies between
the sad slow movement of time to life to death
4/8/17
jeg.
when the animal dies
when an animal dies what is the last thought, the last coherence
is it that all is nature and that we return to nature
no matter how badly we defiled it.
some time ago my old dog Amos took a long time to die.
one morning, when I went to take him out, he couldn’t stand.
He was sixteen, almost seventeen, and I knew it was the end.
another dog sickened, several years earlier, and I took her, Sarah, to a vet
and waited for him to call and tell me it was time for her to go home.
I waited but no call came.
when I called his assistant said it would be a few days
I was looking forward to holding her again; she was eight years old and
I was planning her declining years and how we’d exercise and eat right and live forever.
then the call came, one Saturday morning,
saying that she had died in the night.
I covered her snarling face in her blanket and carried her home hiding my tears.
I wonder what her last thoughts were
or if she saw demons and tried to fight them off
and looked to me to have her back and assure her they weren’t real.
but I wasn’t there and the words occurred to me
that I had abandon everyone and everything I had ever loved
so why would she expect any different.
so I waited out the long nights
watching my old dog Amos die, wondering if I was doing right.
I talked to him and held him and sang to him in my atonal voice.
he always liked it when I whistled so I whistled to him as I puttered around the kitchen
cleaning his messes and offering him the water he lapped while staring
into my eyes.
for a week he would eat nothing
then one night, when I was eating a piece of bread, his eyes asked
and I gave him some and he ate as if he was starving, as he was.
but he soon stopped this and all I could do to warm a little milk
to dissolve his pain medicine in
he lapped it slower and slower and I slept less and less.
every time I left him I hurried back
expecting that he would be gone and maybe I hoped it would be so
but he held on and if he fought demons he did so in silence, unmoving.
one night I lay on my bed and suddenly awoke to see it was first light on easter Saturday
I ran down the steps and he looked up breathing slowly and uncertainly
in a puddle of drool.
once again in my weakness I had abandon one I loved
he looked up at me and I cleaned him and stroked him and cried and whistled and sang
and told him how good he was.
after a while his breathing labored further
and I sat on the floor beside him as I had for so many nights and days
and he turned his head away from me and breathed no more.
12/29/16
jeg.
terse words
written words are shadows of thought
etched upon the page in ash
their meanings vary
self-serving to insightful
they are ghosts until read
spoken words are echoes of thought
caste upon the atmosphere
their meanings vary
lies to truth
they are ghosts until heard
shouted words are bullets of thought
shot into the mind
their meanings vary
encouragement to destruction
they are ghosts until fired
whispered words are vestiges of thought
shimmering on the surface
their meanings vary
seduction to malice
they are ghosts until shared
remembered words are dreams of thought
lost in the mind
their meanings vary
delight to horror
they are ghosts until recalled
forgotten words are essences of thought
distilled its most basic
their meanings vary
tongue tips to nagging
they are ghosts until failed
guilty words are crimes of thought
twisted into innocence
their meanings vary
shame to pride
they are ghosts until arisen
whimpered words are sorrows of thought
clad in the moments of weakness
their meanings vary
remorse to helpless
they are ghosts until sounded
terse words are the ends of thought
best left unspoken
their meanings vary
unwritten and unthought
they are ghosts until understood
11/29/16
jeg.
My American Mirror
As I open up the page
and look into my American mirror
I never know what I’ll see
waves of joy winds of hope
clouds of fear rains of hate
all pierce my American eye
and settle in my mind
As I open up the page
and stare into my American mirror
am I aghast at what I see
rivers of wealth mountains of goods
deserts of hunger canyons of waste
all enter my American eye
and settle in my mind
As I open up the page
and glance into my American mirror
do I know what I see
schools of love cities of peace
houses of despair temples of self
all touch my American eye
and settle in my mind
As I open up the page
and delve into my American mirror
should I love what I see
armies of help masses of kindness
souls of solitude hearts of loneliness
all pass my American eye
and settle in my mind
As I open up the page
and step into my American mirror
must I accept what I see
wonders of freedom glories of triumph
despairs of slavery depths of imprisonment
all blind my American eye
and settle in my mind
11/27/16
jeg.
Thanksgiving
The Thanksgivings continue to add up
and my heart is no longer quite broken.
It is oddly lumpy and scarred and battered
and has lost the ability to mourn and wail
but it is definitely of one piece.
Every year a bit is gained a bit is lost
and I ignore the consequences of this.
It is a part of aging a part of life and of dying
that goes on until it doesn’t
until I am no longer aware of the sequence.
A memory here a recollection there
like relics to be prayed over and mulled.
I have collected all I can collect
that collection is now part of the background
and collects dust in place of tears.
Except every now and then a solitary spark
ignites the fire to flames once again.
These fires threaten to engulf and overwhelm
they crackle and spread from the center
to my mind to my heart to my soul.
Yet each time they start to burn and encroach
upon some unscarred ground they dampen down.
A lack of fuel a lack of oxygen a lack of heat
saves me once again from the memories
banked and dulled amongst the ashes.
Thanksgiving is a wind barely stirring the embers
though there are other days I dread and avoid.
I seek to pour water on the smoldering
I need to quench the center of the fire
that welds my lump of a heart together.
11/24/16
jeg.
the hate savage
the hate savage lies within
its blind eyes hating all it cannot see
clouded white, unblinking and cold
waiting for the light to dim
in darkness the sighted and unsighted
exist equally.
the hate savage lies within
its deaf ears hating all it cannot hear
cauliflower cartilage, twisted and numb
waiting for the sound to dim
in silence the heard and unheard
exist equally.
the hate savage lies within
its mute tongue hating all it cannot say
tar blackened, bitten and bloodied
waiting for the words to dim
in gasps the spoken and unspoken
exist equally.
the hate savage lies within
its scentless nose hating all it cannot smell
flattened, congested and running
waiting for the smells to dim
in miasma the scented and unscented
exist equally.
the hate savage lies within
its numb fingers hating all it cannot touch
calloused, gnarled and broken
waiting for the touch to dim
insensate the feeling and unfeeling
exist equally.
11/16
jeg.
Mike's Morning Blues
My mind is in the low place,
Damn! my shoe is untied...
My mind in is the low place,
Damn! my shoe is untied…
I don’t want to bend over
why didn’t I wear slip ons inside.
My mind is in the low place,
Wait! these don’t go with my clothes…
My mind is in the low place,
Wait! these don’t go with my clothes…
Was that the mailman?
Don’t matter, I need coffee I suppose.
The Tomb of Words
I dreamt that all poems were written
and that we’d write poems no more
a silence of words fell across the land
every language and every tongue
And when I tried to write the words
into a new and different form
to be original and and to be alive
the words would form no more
And all the words settled into an order
and all the thoughts followed in turn
and all the minds went rigid within
and all the voices sounded along
Neither good nor evil nor hot nor cold
the words fell as an invisible rain
upon the soundless empty souls
and new thought was frozen solid
I woke to find that all the words
had congealed upon my tongue
my mouth too full to spit them out
my throat too narrow to swallow
I woke to find that all the poems
had been reduced to dust
what was important is not now
and the words interred into tombs
These tiny tombs did not hold
the dreaming words were unquiet
the ghosts of thoughts rose to haunt
my hopes of waking poems once more.
jeg.
10/16
the color of love
love is not a possession
and to love is not to possess
i linger on the edge of civility
with a heart in my hand
and hopelessness in my chest
this silent heart
neither living nor dead
weakened by age
and prone to tears
and liable to break apart
having abandon all i have loved
living in the knowledge
that i will abandon love again
does not prevent
love from escaping
giving love away
is all too easy
taking it back is too hard
memory littered with love past
still tugging the heart
the lie of love
twists the mind, heart and soul
the lie of love
turns black to white and back
a gift unsent and unwanted
jeg. 9/16
if i were god
if i were god no one would die, be sick, disabled or old
i would raise the dead from the start of the garden
and make them hale and whole and forever well
it would not be a problem finding food
nor a problem finding space
nor a problem making everything perfect
because i would be god
and all things are possible
i would know the fate of every pet, plant and sparrow
all would be shining and alive forever
and pain, suffering and sorrow would be banished
and shame, hate and poverty would be banished
and every atom would be aligned
and this would be easy
because i would be god
and all things are possible
if all is possible for god why is all in misery why is all in shame
why is all hate burning so fast and hot in our minds and souls
why is entropy advancing and pity retreating
all is in reverse of a kind and peaceful god
questions are not allowed
faith is all that is required
because i am not god
and magic is not is possible
5/4/16
jeg.
lower than angels
the animal awakes in the cold of the winter
and huddles down lower in his nest
waiting a reason to leave the warmth
eyes clinching shut against the brightening light
ears pricking towards to ascending sounds
the animal awakes in the cold of the winter
reluctant to start the impending day
waiting until the last moment to leave the bed
fingers clutching the wisps of the blankets
thoughts grasping at the fragments of dreams
the animal awakes in the cold of the winter
cracked lips parched tongue in thirst
waiting for the moisture to free the voice
lips pursing to expel the words
teeth grinding to try and hold them in
the animal awakes in the cold of the winter
a twinge of hunger just enough to notice
waiting for the time when it is unbearable
desires overwhelming the comfort
needs building until safety is no issue
the animal awakes in the cold of the winter
and nestles down lower in his bed
waiting with no reason to leave the warmth
eyes curtained against the brightening light
ears blocked at the descending of the sounds
jeg 12/15
The Low Place
My mind is in the low place
where evil minds go
when they seek an excuse
for the actions before
to twist wrongs right and to explain
what was meant and what was intended
and why it wasn’t meant or intended
and how all others cannot see or understand
the wrong that is right for only me.
So the words I speak
serve only me
narrow meanings widened
wider meanings narrowed
until all sense and definition are woven
into what it was I really meant to say
and even if I said what I meant
I didn’t really say that at all
those with ears all misunderstood.
The actions seen
are not the actions seen
the camera lies
the video edited
the transcript altered beyond recognition
the louder I speak the louder the truth
the more I insist the more the reality
until all understand that which I understand
unless I change it back again.
Once I go into the low place
how can I escape
deeper and deeper the prize
I’m lured and teased
by the moments of success
a warm satisfaction overwhelms me
and no matter the words, the actions or the results
they are there only for me to contemplate
for me to use as I please.
2nd Thanksgiving
It's the second Thanksgiving since my sister died
and the voices in my dreams remained silent
no long ago memories relived
no anecdotes to be shared in tears.
Perhaps it’s part of growing
or perhaps it was the six cans of beer I drank
before stumbling to bed last night
a cold wind pushing the recent warmth away.
It rattled the windows and whistled around the house
as I wrapt the blankets tighter, awaiting sleep,
it crawled through the cracks, bringing freshness
into my cluttered musty soul.
Sleep claimed me slowly as I lived in thoughts,
sleep doesn’t love me anyway,
it laughs at my constant turning and pillow fluffing
my constant slips into darkness and sudden jolts awake.
What would I dream if I could choose
a quiet moment, the dining room table set,
the kitchen awash in the odors of thanksgiving
the television, black and white, a distant murmur.
A feast that is waiting to be eaten
a dream that is waiting to be dreamt
a memory that is waiting to be remembered
a future that is waiting to be lived.
jeg. 11/15
hate
i never knew i had so much hate in me
where did it all come from
and where will it all go
the question i do not want to answer
will i spread my hate
as the farmer does sow seed
and my hate will grow and grow
until it breeds more hate
and perpetuates itself
it will live apart from me
yet still feed off me
and it will feed others
until their hate feeds others hate
and their hate feeds more with hate
forever into eternity
i wonder if i'll remember
that i started this
that i was the source
but i'm certain i'll blame others
and wallow in my purity
where hate does not exist
the blood red mean child
lives within me
it never matures
the cruel child controls me
it never lets go
it clings and clenches
sucking the milk of hate
learning the way
and passing it on
Petty
I do not understand you
and your petty god
with his petty anger
punishing us for the sin
of being human.
what does such a god want
of his weak creations
building up and tearing down
in childlike petulance
sweeping the board clear.
what are humans
to an omnipotent being
cockroaches startled
in the light seeking safety
from the treading foot
The Debris of Time
I find myself more and more
sifting through the debris of time
a postcard from New York
a letter from Tacoma
a handful of black and white photographs
showing people I barely recall and many I do not know
most of whom are now gone
the color photographs taken when my family were alive.
I find myself more and more
sifting through the debris of time
a scrap of paper with a list
a tale started unfinished
a few words saying as much as many
telling of what was inside behind all the faces
I wish there was more
stories, tales and novels of what you were and are no more.
I find myself more and more
sifting through the debris of time
a knickknack from 1945
awards won in combat
a box of jewelry that cannot be discarded
rings, bracelets, bangles and beads from another world
I search among them looking for life out of death
and wonder the future
where will these things be in a few years from now.
When I was Evil
Once, when I was evil,
I said evil things and laughed as I said the evil
I found the evil both humorous and empowering
to laugh at the weak and differing
I was evil and now I weep
it is not as if I was unaware of the power of words
worse than sticks, worse than stones
those wounds heal
but not the wounds of words
I was evil and now I weep
Once, when I was evil,
I saw evil things and laughed as I watched the evil
I found the evil both seductive and entertaining
to laugh at the weak and differing
I was evil and now I weep
it is not as if I was unaware of the power of images
worse than slings, worse than arrows
those wounds heal
but not the wounds of images
I was evil and now I weep
Once, when I was evil,
I heard evil things and laughed as I heard the evil
I found the evil both reasonable and equitable
to laugh at the weak and differing
I was evil and now I weep
it is not as if I was unaware of the power of sound
worse than bullets, worse than bombs
those wounds heal
but not the wounds of sounds
I was evil and now I weep
Once, when I was evil,
I did evil things and laughed as I did the evil
I found the evil both divisive and exciting
to laugh at the weak and differing
I was evil and now I weep
it is not as if I was unaware of the power of actions
worse than knives, worse than swords
those wounds heal
but not the wounds of actions
I was evil and now I weep
Once, when I was evil,
I condoned evil things and laughed as I condoned the evil
I found the evil both attractive and effusive
to laugh at the weak and differing
I was evil and now I weep
it is not as if I was unaware of the power of condoning
worse than acid, worse than salt
those wounds heal
but not the wounds of condonation
I was evil and now I weep
Once, though I was evil,
I rejected evil things and cried as I rejected the evil
I found the evil both debilitating and elusive
to have laughed at the weak and differing
I was evil and now I weep
it is not as if I am unaware of the power of evil
worse than lies, worse than deceit
those wound still open
as are the wounds of the past
I am still evil and still I weep
jeg. 7/15
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