Thanksgiving

This is the first Thanksgiving since my sister died

and it leads to me to a list of upcoming firsts

The first Christmas, the first New Year and more

a feeling of loneliness a feeling of helplessness

welling behind my eyes and in my heart

the counted days accumulating until the hurt dissipates.

This morning I awoke with her voice in my dream

I lay there for a moment in that half-life

of sleep and waking of dream and reality

waiting for one or the other to dominate my being

while trying to reclaim the moment and place

to pull myself into the exact time of its occurrence.

And there I was, a child again on Thanksgiving day

lolling in the heavy afternoon of 1960

with my sister goading me to eat just one more bite

from the turkey shambles on the dining room table

whispering from behind the door, behind the chair

"The turkey's calling you, the turkey's calling you."

My sister spoke her own language that she created

to torment me, to tease me, to endear me

and I can barely recall the vocabulary now

the passing years have weakened my memories 

and wasted my past into a heap of bone and ash

which my tears serve to wash away even further.

Her stories entertained the lonely days and nights

of our exile to a new town a new state

where friendless and shy I restarted with hesitation

the interactions with which I was never comfortable

her weaving drew me back from the void, 

a gully into which my soul had fallen.

Who was that child, stuffed with Thanksgiving

where is that child, sedated and calm

driven into action with a whispered phrase;

why did I eat over and over just to maintain the joke

I must have been nearly sick to death 

but I labored on to please her.

How unlike the later years when I abandon my sister

not out of malice or anger but out of selfishness and pride

and I grew the separation upon miles and miles

and I grew the new, humorless me

who would never again stuff his face just to please

but who would ignore all past and present kindness. 

A soul fallen ever deeper and ever further away

so deep not even a smiling and meaningless phrase 

could pull me back could save the divided heart

from dividing ever wider and wider

creating a distance even excuses could not span

and leaving her alone yet ever hopeful.

I arise an aging man facing both in and out

with a wisp of words tugging at my hearing

just beyond the moment of dreams

and just before the moment of waking

where even Thanksgiving has lost all meaning

and where death always defeats life.

The key

I found an unknown key

to an unknown lock

in a drawer I was sorting through

today

What should I do with it

throw it away or

put it back in the drawer or

put it in the little box

With all the other keys I once needed

but no longer need

locks left unlocked

or locked away forever

Dying slowly

the invasion of moisture

the advance of rust

the slow clenching

Alone and useless

a life that has been passed by

never again to feel

the welcome penetration of the key

Never again to release

the pressure of the tumblers

the action summed up

in a final click

The unknown key stares mute

its face and teeth

set in the grimace

of final acceptance.

I close my hand over the key

wondering of the lost lock

and set about

trying to decide.

Big Man

I'm a big man with a gun,

afraid of no one.

I have the special eyes

that see through lies.

I have the special ears

that hear fears.

I'm a big man with a gun,

accountable to no one.

I'm a big man with a gun,

afraid of no one.

I have the special mind

that knows the different kind.

I have the special sense

that understands pretense.

I'm a big man with a gun,

all justice rolled into one.

I'm a big man with a gun,

afraid of no one.

I have the special rights

that win all fights.

I have the special laws

that obscure my flaws.

I'm a big man with a gun,

stronger than anyone.

I'm a big man with a gun,

afraid of no one.

I have the special way

that knows truth as it lays.

I have the special skin

that detects every sin.

I'm a big man with a gun,

I know what must be done.

The Legend of Reagan

Already a dying mind

he blew the cold war hot

and dreamed of nuclear conflict,

as if a on the movie screen:

The sad list of casualties rolled in,

some millions in New York City

some millions in L.A.

a single pilot dive bombing Moscow.

He presented the posthumous

Medal of Honor

to the weeping widow with stoic sons

as a grateful nation looked on.

He dreamed of pitting aging battleships

against silent submarines

the massive guns searched for targets,

the submarines glided ever nearer.

He honored the brave sailors

who fought against the odds

drowning men and sinking ships,

the words he spoke so firmly.

Planes flew in and never returned

ships disappeared in balls of fire

soldiers sickened and fought on;

the president raised his hands.

He pointed to the wall 

he pointed to the the monitor

the green screen enveloped him

and still he dreamed.

The barbarians were at the gates

the capitol in ruins

a ragged few patriots

against the Mongol hoard.

The president dreamed he stood firm 

as the republic crumbled

his powers unchecked saved the day

he retired to his farm.

To await the day when once again

his nation would call

and he'd sow the salt at Carthage

as Scipio had done.

In the Mood

I'm always in a writing mood 

or in a music mood

then I sit down at either keyboard 

and the mood betrays me;

I need viagra for the disfunction of art

or weed, coke or something

to pull the words and music

out of a soul that dried up long ago;

my fingers pause and raise the coffee cup

and salute my last addiction,

except for the daydream of youth

when the words, music and future flowed;

and even I could spin

easily to the basket

and stretch one long thin arm out,

and finger roll it in.

Life as an Animal

When the lizard brain awakes

and all that is human has fled

and we are reduced to our lowest form

scrabbling among the rocks

or slithering amidst the reeds

seeing with dull eyes set low

feeling the dry and the wet

hearing the silence and the sibilant

smelling the decay of the carrion

tasting the rot with relish.

When the lizard brain awakes

and all that is reason has gone

and we that are primitive arise

scrabbling into the sunlight

or slithering onto the warm sand

seeing shadows with with dim eyes

feeling pain with hard skin

hearing cries with covered ears

smelling lust within the musty

tasting the blood eagerly.

When the lizard brain awakes

and all that is enlightenment has darkened

and we blunder noisily in the night

scrabbling along the water's edge

or slithering into the wetness

seeing nothing in panic

feeling that which is unseen

hearing the sounds in the loudness

smelling both the prey and the hunter

tasting the empty snap of the jaws.

When the lizard brain awakes

and all that is civil has torn away

and we thrust away the broken soul

scrabbling after the prey

or slithering from the hunter

seeing the blood and the flesh

feeling the fear and the anger

hearing the whimper and the scream

smelling the terror and the fright

tasting the bitter and the sweet.

When the lizard brain awakes

and all that is us has left

and we are fear, pain, loathing and anger

scrabbling for the choicest bits

or slithering among the remnants of life

seeing what we want to see

feeling what we want to feel

hearing what we want to hear

smelling what we want to smell

tasting what we want to taste.

Bullet Back

Even after 40 years I'm still wanting to take the bullet back...