Shabby Blanket

The warmth of this moment
is a blessing.
The cold winter’s gale is blowing
ferociously,
and I have no scarf or mittens.
My coat is merely a child’s
baby blanket,
bundled tightly around my shoulders and neck.
It’s threadbare in a couple spots,
that’s probably why it was in the trash.
The family at 143 Elm Street
threw it away last Thursday
after they returned from Macy’s with
a new, soft red one.
But it was my luck in wandering
through town at the right moment.
This old blanket will serve me just fine,
and I said a prayer for those folks for
blessing me this Christmas with
an old blanket.

Now I’m home,
the rusty old yellow train car
to the side of the tracks,
you know the one on the way
out of town?
The one with most of the windows
still intact.
I think the lettering on the side
used to advertise
shaving lotion,
or was it Coca-Cola?
It’s been too many years...
not that it matters,
this old tin can is of no use to anyone,
save me,
and I’m sure that the folks in town are
glad
that the railway graveyard
is pretty far out of town.
It would spoil their
perfectly manicured lawns
and bright white fences
to have me too close to their suburban utopia.
It reminds them that their American Dream
is filled with rainbows
and garbage,
with wealth
and
unspeakable poverty.
But that doesn’t bother me too much,
not really.
I’m grateful, actually.

Would you like to step into my humble abode?
Pull up that old wooden crate, and I’ll make some
apple leaf tea.
I know, it sounds strange,
but I picked the leaves myself
after dark
two nights ago
at the orchard
half a mile away from here.
It’s really quite refreshing once you’re used to it.
And bless you for joining me this evening.
It’s not often that young people visit
a crazy old bum like me
out here in the train graveyard.

They don’t remember,
or don’t want to remember
that once I had everything
they had.
I wanted everything they wanted.
I was the head of the University’s
English Department,
with a PhD from
Stanford.
I painted my fence white every Memorial Day.
No, they don’t want to remember.
It scares them too much.
They think their world
is so solid.
Secure.
And to sit across from me in this old car,
to look me in the eye,
to see the
remarkable contrast that is possible
in one man’s life is
unimaginable.
They don’t want to think about it.
They are content to
get all worked up over the evening news.
To worry about the rising cost of gasoline
and how the kids need new sneakers and video games,
and the cruise to the Caribbean they simply
MUST
take this summer.

No, I wouldn’t go back to that life.
I live this way
by choice.
I know it’s hard to fathom,
and please don’t misunderstand me,
that’s not bitterness
you detected in my voice.
It’s frustration.
What has this country become?
What have we become?

Ah, regardless,
there are things I’ve seen
in this way of life that
I would never have seen
otherwise.
Things I’ve felt
and known
that can’t be experienced
in the comfort
of society.
It’s my choice, yes,
and tonight
I’m grateful for this
shabby
blue
blanket.

The Space Between

In the space between
here
and
here
ring a thousand thousand
temple bells...

If you listen
very
closely,
you might remember them
from long, lazy summer days,
reclining beside the swimming hole,
the cicadas offering their song
to the wind,
and laughter echoing off the
rough
stone
walls
of the cave not too far away,
the cave where you liked to hide
during thunderstorms,
but you always told Mom that you were
playing at Maggie’s house.
She just couldn’t understand
the magic
of the earth’s rumbling
from the inside,
rivulets of muddy earth slithering all around
like shimmering serpents
from another world.
The earth’s own lullaby
would always lull you to sleep
or into some kind of trance
or meditation
but you didn’t know what that meant back then...
you were only nine years old, after all.
And just before you would wake up...
back to reality...
there in Mother’s womb,
you’d hear them,
the distant chiming of
bells...
But the moment you’d open your eyes to seek the source of the
mysterious melody,
you’d find yourself face to face with
a cricket
or grasshopper,
or once, a couple of small field mice,
glistening, beady eyes chiming
like the toll of the distant chapel?
No, it couldn’t be...
that makes no sense.

Soon enough,
doubt overtook magic.
There never were any bells.
It was only a dream.
Will those damn crickets
SHUT UP?!
You don’t have time to go to
the cave,
You haven’t been to the swimming hole
since at least a year before
you learned to drive.
And the shopping mall was really much more interesting,
who wants to go swimming in a muddy pit
so far away
from civilization?!

The last vestige of imagination is
sold on the
black
blue
white
red
yellow
GREEN
market.

Bells are only for
Christmas,
for the volunteer
working for the Salvation Army.
And we all get really tired of that
awful noise and harassment
really quickly.
Enough with the DAMN BELLS!
You need a scotch on the rocks,
and when will the kid quit crying.
God,
when will it all end?!
All you really need is
the space between
here
and
here.
Can you remember?

Susquehanna

Afternoon sunlight
glinting on the still surface of
the Susquehanna...

Yes,
the road goes this way,
we have erected towers
of gray,
rigid and secure,
safely above her waters.
A solid, gray bridge,
a clear, reliable structure
beneath our cloudy gray sky,
surrounded by our tall gray
buildings,
places where we lock ourselves away
in the realm of
dull gray suits,
dull gray thoughts,
dull gray hearts.

Electric ribbons of light,
formless,
incidental,
raucous,
rip their way across the river.
Out here,
on the banks of the Susquehanna,
there is just enough
fresh air,
just enough
brown, blue, green,
just enough
subtle silence
to coax
imagination from its
hibernation.

The space between thoughts becomes greater...

The path of the wind becomes clearer...

The hollowness of the world of man is revealed to me once more,
and I feel alive.

No Ideas

I have absolutely
no ideas
now.
I give up.
Hope is of no consequence
for
I am only
interested
in

THIS

breath

THIS

moment...

Shit.
Who is pounding on my door?
Can’t you knock like a
civilized
human being?
Is it a matter
of such
desperation that you must
rattle the walls
of my
simple hermitage?
Fine!
I’ll open the door!

Wow...
No one will ever believe...
this...

Strangled No. 2

Yesterday
as I walked toward my car
in the usual way
I walked into someone else’s memory
or feeling
Someone was struck there
and I felt it so deeply that I too
knew the shock and suffering
of that act of violence.

A week ago
on the trail,
I felt the approach of a man
who I knew would
assault me,
strike the back of my head
and grab my neck.
When I turned to look
in horror,
there was no one.
Only the trees
holding on
to the last few leaves.

I was not struck
by anyone.
The violation of my
body was minimal.
Yet today as I drove along
the highway,
I felt the distinct memory
of being bludgeoned,
of my skull impacting
with stone.

When these memories come, I feel them in my body.

Strangled No. 1

The rushing sound
keeps echoing in my
mind.
It’s not a sound that I heard in the external world,
and maybe I didn’t hear it at all,
maybe I just felt it,
my body struggling
to understand
why there was no air
even though it seemed that
respiration
should be occurring...
It’s the loudest silence, really...
the sound of outer space,
at least as I imagine it.
A vacuum.
I wonder,
were there sounds of struggle?
Did those sharp,
well-dressed men
say anything?
I’m told there was an alarm,
loud enough to make my assailants flee.
I heard no alarm,
no footsteps,
nothing but
the whoosh of blood in my veins.

Is the sense of hearing
connected somehow
to a person’s respiratory function?
Does the interruption of one
disrupt the other?

Infinity

As you draw those lazy signs of infinity
on my flesh,
you remind me that there are
some days
that really need no form,
and they are beautiful
in just as many ways
as a perfect day,
planned and arranged,
ordered and successful,
tidy.

Infinity
is rarely tidy.

Wander through the woods with me,
just occasionally,
and maybe we will hear the lonely cry
of a tiny bird
flying high above the trees...
he’s decided that winter isn’t so hard
after all
and here is really a good place to be
for now.
In counterpoint with our
footsteps and breath
is the fresh rush of freezing cold water,
almost silent in its everpresent
echo.
(Sometimes it’s really easy
to forget the things that are always here,
like the sky and the ground.
But not today.
The birds have reminded me about the
sky and the ground
today.)

Today,
Infinity is the tip of your finger,
dancing its way across my
limited
point of awareness.
This moment is
just
enough.