Poet at the edge

Gray and warm this Christmastime —

not the intense cold of upstate Illinois —

it’s like Wisconsin there most of the time.

Escaping was the easy part, surviving,

now that’s been another thing altogether.

It’s like mountains of Florida, an uncanny dream,

a partially digested thought or bad weather.

What I didn’t know then is still out of reach

but it doesn’t matter and it’s set aside.

I was that grade school kid everyone wanted to teach:

Vacant eyes, straight horizontal mouth, from a graphic novel.

So, when I tell you I wasn’t in the room when it happened,

that could be true, until the story begins to unravel.

Then, I’m back on State Street, it’s Chicago, Marshall Fields windows,

it’s Christmastime and I find myself contemplating

the mountains of Florida again.

There was a push, push,

then a knock, knock.

No voice, a little breathing,

maybe exasperation.

Knock, knock, then again,

maybe a whimper like

“I know you’re in there,

you know I’m out here,

why don’t you answer?”

I didn’t choose to answer,

ensconced as I was

in a warm room.

The night was bitter

and I didn’t choose to

throw in with it.

I chose to be alone.

There was a push, push,

then a knock, knock.

No voice, a little breathing,

maybe exasperation.

Knock, knock, then again,

maybe a whimper like

“I know you’re in there,

you know I’m out here,

why don’t you answer?”

I don’t choose it, that’s all.

“why can’t you let it go?”

like a chorus to a song

that makes you sicker

each time you hear it.

so i’m not the first who

can’t take a joke

can’t get around the rocks

in the stream without

some accident some violence.

i don’t remember anyone

leaving an instruction book

on handling things thrown

or even tossed my way.

it’s turned cold and my coat

is worn and torn and due

for replacement but there’s

no money or time to fix it,

to fix anything it seems.

all the friends and whispers

from God just bounce off

like i’m coated with teflon

like i’m covered by kevlar

like a rock with a soft core

not molten but wet and damp.

yes, i hear your voice

but i can’t listen to the love in

“why can’t you get over it?”

Part of the problem, probably,

too much swearing, too much smoking,

lost to too little thinking, too little awe,

but, then, it is, probably, unseen.

There are wide gestures of inclusion,

the kids love that stuff, probably,

more than I can stomach, pass the Pepto!

And it’s like rush hour traffic, lurching,

I mean lurching in a waltz probably designed

by lack of planning, too little thought.

Woozy and congested, I can’t smell a thing

then you ask how I like the food and, probably,

it’s great but it’s just as likely White Castle

for all I know, for all I can sense.

Rocking back and forth is a bit of a nervous tick

I think it’s indicative of some social disorder,

at least, or, probably something worse.

But, look, I’m going to step outside for a smoke,

contemplate the scene and probably, you know,

split.

1

It is a barren orb, if it isn’t flat, if the science

is good, but how can you tell or truly know

when you’re too fascinated by fiction to discern truth?

Hold me up, then, and I will follow, for as surely as night

covers day, we will find security, discover peace.

2

Animals once too timid to confront us now are rabid,

dogs chewing and tearing, and there is no antidote

to their poisons, their ripping teeth laid bare.

The life we once had, we cherished, has slipped away

and who were the jackals that took her, devoured her?