Kept my mouth shut except to
Make the kind of small talk that is expected
And that greases so many things
Palms of hands that reach out to open doors
And usher those through who apply that oil
Or
Focused on producing papers instead of grading them
Because the comments didn’t get much read
If what came in after is any sign
And it would seem to be
Or
Stayed in school at the one school instead of going to another
Taken advantage of the opportunities I did not know were there
Because I did not pay attention to that kind of thing
Not knowing that I needed to do so
Because who would ever have told me that when
Study hard and get good grades
Was still the rule of the day
Or
Stayed in school at the once school a little longer
As long as I had been expected to, really,
As long as most of the rest of them did
And maybe I would have won things for which
I was in the running
Before I tripped over my own feet
And one or two conveniently stuck out in my path
Amid snickering

Been nicer to that one kid in Kindergarten
Not tried so hard to shove how smart I was down their throats afterward
Tried so hard to get out of being wrong
Read a book instead of looking at a screen
Practiced my horn instead of reading quite all of those books
Gone out and done instead of staying in all those nights
Been working instead of going out with friends
Made friends instead of making grades
Because it isn’t what you know
Because you can always learn something else
But some lessons only get offered once
And I skipped those classes in favor of attending others
More normal
More formal
And a lot of good it did me
If good is measured by creditors’ ledgers
And therapists’ bills

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Heart pounding
Chest heaving
Feet pumping
Breath leaving

Still sitting
Still sitting
On no pallid bust of Pallas
That allegiance long forsworn
Chasing after Mammon
Though shoes and feet are worn
Clutching after castoffs
Grabbing them up though forlorn
Eating of them, greedy
Of all dignity long shorn
But stopping is the other choice
And stopping earns all scorn

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The skin is peeled away
The sagging muscles and drooping sinews
The rotting bones showing to the world
And though I did not always enjoy being inside her–
More so when I entered through one door than through another
And found myself blowing something in my own mouth–
Seeing her abandoned so and
Flayed
Decaying
Carrion worked over by scuttling things
As I pass by again and again
My own heart is bared to the Hill Country sun
And the winds funneled between the limestone swellings
Covered by oak and cedar and mesquite
Moisture unforeseen squeezed out

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I used to drive a lot
Threading my way through the byways
And speeding along the highways
Knowing where I was going and
Skipping the scenery along the way as I
Made sure that I got there

But the car I drove then has gone away
Sold to cover one debt or another
And I’ve lost track of how much I owe to how many people
And I managed to get by on buses and trains for a time
Since I lived where they run
And still knew where I was going
And hurried along to get there
Focusing on how and how quickly
Not thinking about why

I had to buy another car
When I moved away from there
Not because I’d stumbled upon Texas tea
Not because I moved to Beverly
But because I still thought I knew where I was going
And thought I’d found a shortcut to get there
And I was wrong on both counts

Here, I’ve bought another car
And I putter along the local roads where I learned to drive
Again
Moving more slowly as others race by me
Remembering when I was one of the ones who sped on
Having somewhere worth being
Being someone worth having

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Coruscating colors clash and confound
Me as I look at the world around me
Contained within four walls
And framed by sash not raised up to show
The flabby pale and pasty thing within
Never firm anymore despite how firm a grip
Upon it might be taken

The old longing rises yet again
To mimic taking in hand some
Long thing and working it back and forth
To make pregnant some furrowed places
Or make a good attempt at the same even if
The fields that might once have been planted
Are gone so long fallow that they
Will not take the plow and can yield no harvest
Save some small misshapen thing that might
Have featured well in the circuses of years past
But no more because we think we have
Grown past such tawdry entertainments
Although few if any of us will look away from a
Spectacle that presents itself

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Old Jeremiah could at least believe
The god he served would give him a reprieve,
But I that faith have long since had to leave
For seeing Stupid God delivered praise
By many mouths across too many days.
In wilderness and scorched by summer rays,
In empty lands and frozen by the chill,
In office chair with pen in hand until
My fingers bleed, I rant, but still
The words I give, I give to no avail;
My throat grows hoarse, my wrists ache, and I ail
And falter, bloodless, growing deathly pale
Because my hope now far away has fled
And creeping death approaches in its stead.

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The scop-work sings that fate goes as it must,
And it is tempting to sit back and trust
That fate will work in ways we see as just,
But Clothos has to pay for what she spins,
And Urðr does not get her weave for grins.
Greed is rightly named the root of sins,
And they are sinners all who power seek,
And all of us will suffer virtue’s leak
As it will seep away, fed by a creek
And feeding mighty rivers in its turn.
The water gone, the landscape then must burn,
A drought descending, though people for rain yearn.
And Stupid God cavorting laughs the while,
Seeing what transpires with a smile.

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I know the bed still calls to you
And you long for its embrace
But the shower has attractions, too
And not just a clean face

Your mom and I have got to go
We have places to be
And so do you, my darling dear,
And, yes, some folks to see

No, we’d rather be with you
Or have you stay with us
But we both must work and earn our pay
And you oughtn’t miss your bus

Your teachers miss your smiling face
Your friends will want to see you, too
And there are things we cannot teach
That need teaching to you

So get up, bathe, dress well, and eat
Your glorious day awaits
Make sure you catch the yellow bus
It’s coming; don’t be late

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I have not been followed by
Anything that could flee from me
Driven by my backward glance
Instead, when I follow Orpheus
Approach the threshold of the living world
What I see clings more tightly to me
Swallows me more greedily than any who
Have drunk the broth that I prepare
Few as they have been

They occasion no worry
Being no maenads
And I not mourning my wife
She lives yet, and well
And my hand-plucking is nothing eagerly sought
But they may be dryads
Their trees growing stuntedly twisted
Gnarled in bark and bough from infertile soil
And being watered but little
And that of salty waters

No branch grows straight if tended thus
No bole proud and sturdy
No spirit succored from such sure
And what can wizened whispers thus created do
Save sing discordant hymns in despite of the gardener
No more harmonious than the awkward and halting chords
Fingers find upon the fretless boards
Quiet voices ringing in the silence only
Because they hold so closely to the ear
Clinging desperately where they have held purchase
Drawing darkness after them and with themselves
Underworld brought over and unreleased

The threshold might as well be a wall
Founded so deeply and built so high
It cannot be crossed

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