What Falls Away

 These days
I find myself
falling apart
easily.
 
My arms are tired
of trying to hold
myself together.
 
My body keeps telling me
in aches and groans,
“what are you
holding onto that
for?”
 
My exhausted brain
unfolds his director’s chair,
squats his weight
upon it and exhales:
 
“Let it fall away.
This body wasn’t meant
to last forever,
so what makes you think
your will is any stronger?”
 
I don’t want
to let everything
fall away,
just the
old, flaky, dead
stuff,
which
makes up more of
who I am
every day.
 
So I’m letting it all
fall away;
if it cannot stay affixed
of its own strength,
then that’s Life saying
I don’t need it.
 
But still,
way deep down inside
the pilot flame is still lit,
the rhythm still beats,
the juices still flow,
 
and I realize
the Great Interconnection
 
as I breathe in
the same air as
Socrates, Jesus and Groucho
and bathe in the same rain
as a delicate hummingbird,
a breathtaking mountain,
the pebbles in the stream.
 
Help me
to easily let go
of what
I no longer need
and
remain steadfast
and strong
and true
to that which
never falls away.

Ritual (Over 100 Quarantine Days)

When the work

is done,

I retire to the garage

to smoke my cannabis,

watch a sitcom rerun

and unwind

as I always do.

I walk to

the front of the house

to check 

my daughter's car

to see 

if it is locked,

as I always do.

I walk around

the black

2012 Honda Civic

and check the doors

and the windows

as I always do.

Noting this ritual,

as I have done over 

100 quarantine days 

in a row, I numbly think:

"There is 

absolutely nothing special 

about this day."

At that moment,

I became conscious

of the purple in the dusk,

the melody in the breeze,

the hopeful laughter of 

the children playing 

up the street,

the scent of her hair

lingering from an

earlier embrace

and the warmth knowing

all was safe,

calm and bright 

for the moment,

and the truth 

whispered in my ear:

"Every single thing

about this day

is special."

Folly

You can fight it
but in the end,
it always wins.

So try
and steal as many
breaths
memories
orgasms
possible.

If you’re lucky
a handful of survivors
will hardly remember
you were
ever here,
and if you’re
luckier,
all your missteps
will fade from
collective memory.

Since I cannot
control it,
I try not to fear it,
but rather
I keep it
in the back
of my mind,
and the front
of my actions:

no matter what,
each of us
leaves behind a skull,
some bones,
rare moments truly lived,
and the folly
of imagining
one more tomorrow,
just out of reach.

Hey, Stupid, Wake Up (For Myself)

Hey, Stupid,
wake up.

So, let’s review:

if you’re not writing,
you’re not a writer.

If you’re not playing music
you’re not a musician.

So,
what are you?

Right,
I don’t know either.

But I do know this:
wake up.

Wake up!

There are roses to be admired,
sunsets to be dreamt upon,
napes to be kissed,

ice cream to melt
upon your tongue.

Wake up
because you can’t do
any of this
if you’re asleep.

I Am the Nostril Monster

I am
the Nostril Monster
and even though
I’ve a huge snout,
sharp, jagged teeth,
a mountainous girth,
and stink of
swamp water,
I still want,
no, need
love.

What I love most
are beautiful,
delicate flowers
with soft wisps
of fragrance,
and delicate petals
exuding all things
perfect and divine.

The problem is
because I am
the Nostril Monster,
my claws are rough,
and my grip
is crude,
my movement,
elephantine.

Mine is a
cruel fate:

everything I
try to love
I end up
unintentionally
destroying.

I am
The Nostril Monster
and I need love.

Trance

Nightly
I sit in the cool spring air,
rocking back and forth
on the patio swing,
trying to put myself
into a trance.

I inhale
the cannabis vape,
and play the recording
of Liz Damon’s Oriental Express
singing “1900 Yesterday.”

I am drawn
to this hopelessly dated
recording,
anachronistic for 1971,
it must seem positively
prehistoric now.

“Where's the love 
that we knew, 
is it gone, 
or have you 
thrown it away?”

Something about
those voices,
that 1960’s Hollywood sound,
takes me back
to my earliest memories
of something beautiful,
someone unblemished.

I perform this ritual
hoping one day
it will be
the key
that unlocks
who I really am,

who I really was
before the crash.

[Written and posted for the Tuesday Platform at the Real Toads.]

Please Don't Follow Through

Someday
you may
break our hearts
and finally
follow through
on the threat.

When
all the doctors,
all the pills,
all the talk therapy
have failed to
bring you
out of the darkness,
you may plunge us
into even more
darkness
with one
desperate
act.

You might feel
alone
but you are not
alone.

We are here.

You might feel
lost
but you are not
lost.

We are here.

You might feel
unnecessary
but you are not
unnecessary.

We would grieve
your loss forever.

Please don't
give up.

Please don't
break our hearts.

Please don't
follow through.