You Can Bring Me Chocolate

I just wanted to dance
even if I had to learn how first. I don’t
know why. I guess because he was
such a good dancer. Maybe that’s why she left
but what was she doing dancing anyway.

There I am, still in shock that I’m going to
grow old alone, without dreams. Without love.
And I’m standing there talking about you.
We hadn’t even met yet. Not here.

I just wanted to dance.
You were some immortal memory
recalled from some other dream. Walked
through a door from your heaven, into this hell.
You roamed the halls of my destruction
while my life burned in the fire of
some mad god’s imagination.

I should have run as fast as life could go.
Someone, something else would have
been waiting. I wasn’t looking for you.
I was waiting, hoping for her.

I just wanted to dance.
Yet magic and wonder live, two sisters, feign sleep.
Concealed from eyes that cannot see. Will not
believe. Awakened, immutable powers heal,
resurrect, and blaze through the darkness.

They loosened despair’s hold,
exposed Death’s little black lie. They filled
the abyss with light, built a bridge across.
And then they allowed me to be . . .

Caught. Surprised by joy.
A wisp of red hair nearly touches the page.
Soft. Seductive.
Lowered my head to hear,
into that sweet noose.
You can bring me chocolate.
I just wanted to dance.

(for Noreen)

gifts

I thought it was you who saved my life
you who opened your door to me
if only to stop my frenzied rapping
but you let me in
all the same

so broken
broken for love
broken for betrayal
broken for desire
broken for my friend

I was different
you liked that
you found me real even as
I began to invent myself
lie to myself so that
I might find the truth

it might have happened then
if I hadn’t been learning how to hate
even so
there was a stirring
a longing
something very much akin to hope

I know the night
the exact moment
your exact words
when I began to love you
I didn’t know
it was the night I began to heal

each day I brought that cup to you
and you sipped of it
the pleasure of it
spreading across your face
I was loving you then and there
bringing me to you

your mind
filled with light
your heart
streaming hope
while mine drank from
dark pools of loss
and sadness
you became my teacher
my hero
still I thought you my savior

the times we talked
about science
books
music
warm moments over coffee
your past
my illusions
our birthdays but a day apart
yet a gulf a years between us
dinners on those days
celebrating your life
my death

and you gave me a story
at first no different than those
already passed between us
but like tiny priceless gifts
each page turned hammered
at the gates I’d built
the pain and love imprisoned behind
night’s black tears escaping into
a sky of daylight blue

asleep in the dark
I held you
danced with you
lived a life with you
I almost missed it
so busy creating myself
but look what happens when you dream

I thought it was you who saved my life
but it was love
my love
gently pulling back a drape
of shadows
while light flooded
the dark chambers of my heart
it was love
it was me loving you more than anyone
has ever loved you
that saved my life.

(for Noreen)

figures

I prayed tonight

prayed for the first time in
a very long time
well not actually prayed
that would mean I believe in
him
her
or it
and that
he
she
or it
could in fact do something
about my life
but I did feel it only proper
to thank all three of them
just in case
they had anything to do with
me meeting her

I prayed tonight

and then slept
and dreamt
dreamt I was living
a different life
when I woke
I found I was living
a different life
and that I was
still dreaming
something about god
dropping by
me telling him
I’m not a member
could he come back later
and we could talk

I’m on my way to meet
a beautiful redhead
I told him
and he said
she worked for him

figures

figures I’d meet someone
already taken
by god no less
and I thought it was
she who wanted me
I told him
I thought it
was time he left
he said he
would camp on
my doorstep until
I was willing
to let him in again
I said I live in
an apartment
I don’t
have a doorstep

he got up

got up
and went to the window
stood there looking out
while the light he’d given off
got
dimmer

and dimmer.

my personal channel to god

I’m not a believer
at least not the way
most of you would understand
don’t want to be saved
not even blessed
just left alone
like I’ve always been

that’s not to say
I never tried to believe
I spent considerable time
on my knees
the walls of my life stained
with screams and pleading
a few years ago

but there’s this woman
I guess you would call her
my best friend
the only one I’ve met
other than me
that knows what it means
to live in your head

like me she’s climbed all
escher’s staircases
picked her way through the clutter
of dali’s mind
and like me she was burned
beyond recognition
in a hell she did not choose

she’s a convert
and I like the way she
lives it
there are no shoulds
in her religion
just belief
and a god

she found me
not long after
I came crashing through
the coordinates
of your space and time
she cared for me
listened to my sorrow
cried with me
and prayed for this emigrant
chased from another world

she prayed for me
when I needed work
and I found work

she prayed for me
when the landlord
told me how much
he would miss me
the next day bringing
money
unlooked for

she prayed for me
when I needed a future
and dark clouds obscured
my view
the clouds gone
as the day broke

sometimes I think she’s foolish
to spend so much time
on her knees
to believe in
someone
and a heaven
I know isn’t there

but then I get to thinking
how I can’t explain
these
miracles

Black and White

It’s the first snow of the year. I’m sitting
here by the window writing about the dog he
hit yesterday. A black lab. The kid in the old
Dodge truck, a fifty something, I think; he’s only
twenty something. Comes flying out of the drive
like his life depended on it. Looks like the dog’s
did. That dog, he must have been a hundred
years old. I never did know where he came from.

I keep turning to look out the window. Those first
ten thousand flakes? That’s the best part. That
feeling something wonderful’s about to happen. I
go downstairs, open the door and just stand there;
watching it. In person. Jesus, it’s quiet. It’s like
a church; not one of those Baptist churches but
a real one; a cathedral like the Catholics have;
something about those churches. Cathedrals.
Thought about converting once but hell, I didn’t
believe in anything where I was, so what difference
was it going to make? Still, I liked those cathedrals.

A couple of kids. When my wife was here we used
to go out and play in it. We’d put on those down
jackets we got up in B.C.?, heavy boots and we’d be out
the door. I remember the way the snow used to stick to her
hair; God she was beautiful. We’d walk around looking
at it. Like it was the first time. All over again.
Like making love to her.

Snow. Yeah, this is the real thing. It’s sticking. That’s
how you know it’s real. It’s got to stick right away; not just
to the grass but the road as well. But you never know. The
temp goes up one or two degrees and it’s gone. Like her.

Got to be at least a couple of inches. I never have figured out what makes it snow. Never have figured out why she left. There’s no snow where she lives now. What I like about the snow is it covers up all the trash on the ground, settles on the roofs. The trees. Hides a lot of things I’d rather not look at. Makes everything look clean. New. I can see God’s hand in this like so many things. Wonder why I can’t ever see the rest of him?

It’s really coming down. Must be, over three inches. That dog? You can hardly see him now.

Starting to feel a lot like me

I’ve begun rearranging my life.
Big chair by the bed, near the window.
A brave little plant on the table.
I tossed those flowery pillows, just not my style.
There’s a new coat of varnish on that old dresser,
and that hideous print has come down.
Feels a little more like me now.

Mornings, I write a line or two,
raise up a couple of thoughts for insurance,
while the sun comes up.
I’ve left the crystal spinning in the window.
Still like to watch the little angels dance the walls.
I believe in anything now.
It’s starting to feel a lot like me.

Hour or two, you’ll find me on the bank.
Sitting with the ducks. Always in pairs.
I’m told they mate for life.
Sleepy fog on the lake, should burn off soon.
Men in their boats. Still. Patient.
Trout strike, and a mirror becomes water
as ripples roll lazily for shore.
Hank Chinaski reads to me from the grave.
Starting to enjoy my time alone.

I’m listening to breakfast.
Eggs pop in the skillet,
bacon frantically sizzles in a pan.
Yellow butter scrapes just brown toast.
Red and blue berries bathe and splash
in water gushing from the spigot.
And my old green tea kettle
patiently whistles.
The morning paper lies quietly,
waiting to share yesterday with me.
These moments are precious.

Errands and chores,
a little honest work.
Writing.
Always writing.
It seems to me time runs fastest
between noon and dusk.
I look up, too late, see its shadow,
the only proof it’s passed at all.
Still, it does feel a lot like me.

Wind’s come up and the day is failing.
Light moving on
to a different part of the world.
Outside, mercury lamps flicker to life.
Inside, the only evidence of life,
that old antique lamp shining on a page.
Now it’s Ray Carver reading to me from the grave.
I want to be just like him.
Wonder who I’ll read to?
This big chair was a good idea.
So comfortable,
there are many nights I sleep here.
The bed is just to big. For one.
No hand to anchor me
as I descend into darkness.
Yeah, it’s sure starting to feel a lot like me.

Who am I kidding?

It still feels like you.

laying out the dead

standing back
I look at your unnecessary body
the neighbor women have done their job well
now bathed
you lie dressed in white
we are too poor for a shroud

in the dining room
you repose center attraction
resting upon the only table long enough
on which you can stretch your legs
in the only room large enough to
hold the many who gaily dance where you
once walked

you are the only sober soul
and me
amongst these celebrants
who regale you
honor you
assault your memory
rejoice in forfeited debt
whisper
or perhaps ask your name
some eye the daughters
you can no longer mind
a few
even mourn you

the pints are raised
sláinte mhah
sláinte mhah
but good health has failed you
or do they toast themselves
the old fairy’s keening now paid
her bean sídhe wail goes silent
yet the evil ones remain
no more do they fear her song

these maudlin drunks
hoist and carry you to the church
they sing and cry your praise
each one more somber
drunker than the last
your holy man prays over you
but here no beads are laid upon your breast
for you and they are Ulstermen
and together you have
your own heaven and hell

alone I have come home
enter the door
but it denies you entry
your long days of labor to go unfilled
no thought do you give our debt
your favorite meal lies cold
and always will
your unfinished work done

nevermore will you lie
with me
nor your strong hands hold me
I still see our lovemaking
and your laughter
yet never again will I hear its song

where do I take my grief
I who drank only of you
where is the god who will console me
and will I feel his arms
I would follow you
but fear I might lose you in the dark
your death cot stands there empty
as empty as my life

Wheelchair

I have
become an observant
creature. Through the
window of this
coffee shop I see
this guy, about my
age. My size. Hair’s
going a little gray.
Like mine.

Comes flying by in a
wheelchair. Right out in
the middle of the
street like he doesn’t
give a good goddamn. My kind
of guy. I mean, Jesus, he’s moving
like it’s his last day. I know
what that feels
like.

Anyone can see he’s used
it for a long time. The
wheelchair.
It fits him like
he was born in it. For all
I know he was. Yeah, life
hasn’t been too
kind to him. Well, I’ve
sung that song for some
time now.

He comes
to a stop next
to an old Chevy truck,
like the one I had,
opens the door,
pulls himself in,
and the chair after
him. Drives off.
It occurs to me that he
and I are a lot
alike.

Only difference is I’m
crippled.