Monday, February 11, 2013

Here’s the truth, angel (My dog died.)

Part I

Here’s the truth, angel
Every damn loss the same
It hurts. There’s pain.

Here’s the truth, angel.
They gone, I’m here.
And that’s a fact.

Even if there's heaven, angel,
And they may in it,
I ain’t.

I here, hurtin’ --
Wishin’ it weren’t so.
I’m here alooo--ne again.

Pushin’ that damn rock
Up that damn hill. Stupid rock
Stupid hill.

Here’s the truth angel,
Every damn loss is the same

Part II

Angel, my heart is squeezed tight
Cinched in with it’s own little corset
Spurtin’ tears out my eyes.

Angel, my breath is short.
Shallow little breaths
Like I don’t want to breathe any of this here air.

‘Cause I don’t
I just as soon stop right here.
Stop breathin’.     Disappear.

Angel, I do got that choice
Being flat out myself. We all do.
… Do or die.

Part III

Here’s the truth, angel
I ain’t got the energy to die.
I dead enough already.

Do I need this, angel--
To love and be loved?
Angel, answer that true.

Monday, February 4, 2013

All the beds

I have been thinking about all the beds I have slept in.    
June 18-Oct 3: 41 away + 50 “home” = 91

Rising from the depths
of the pillow,
ensconced in a cocoon of white—
where am I?
Where is this bed?

Is it banked on a wall of brick?
Is there light filling the air
from the windows of my loft?
Do I hear fire truck sirens?

Or, nestled quietly,
is light seeping through my shutters;
is a fan whispering quietly overhead;
are happy doggies barking somewhere outside?
Do I hear an ambulance whaling?

Am I home or away?

Is it hotel room dark?
If so, is it in Rochester,
Rome or Bellagio?
Perhaps Nashville or Asheville.

Is it a cabin? Or a house?
Is it a twin or a queen?
Am I awake or asleep?
Is it a dream? Should I rouse?

Or when I open my eyes,
will I see the little window
showing me a bit of roof
and Norway spruce?

I have been so many places
these last 3 months.
I might as well have been
a musician on tour.

How long have I been asleep?
Evidently, not long enough.

This cozy bed is home.
I am staying right here.

All In

I find I love her.
My biographer.  Who wouldn’t?
So many important questions to ponder;
so many answers only I can give.

My thoughts are a gold mine.;
my travels, her outline.
She wants to know my soul,
my sins,  my giving in.

When I worry, she sees the slippery slope
when I succeed, she sees all mankind’s hope.
She records each word I breathe;
for this endeavor, I am challenged just to please.

I no longer want the book
I cede my secrets and my trust
to this wordsmith minister.
I want to spill every little thing to this, my listener.

All is naught, I cast it all aside.
To express my story, I lose myself--
too in love with the myth
my biographer and I create.

November 12th, 2012