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.

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 12^th, 2012