Bouillon Cube
What a feeling: to be lovable.
intense and overwhelming,
and salty
like a bouillon cube of the everlasting variety:
sucked away to nothing
yet remaining nevertheless.
Miller Time
mill-er noun . . . 3. Any of various moths whose wings and bodies have a powdery appearance.
Fall: the season of millers
millions swarm,
invade our homes,
penetrate through every crack,
fly through every open door;
horribly vital in life
and dusty in death
- a sneeze -
A light burning indoors draws them;
- an arcane hope of what
in that mothy brain? -
to swarm and circle and flutter and thump
like the air traffic control in hell
or some insectile Barnum and Bailey's.
And when one finds a candle,
O what a light!
seemingly as alive as the miller itself
swaying and dancing.
Does it beckon him on?
Drawn by the inexorable tether of erring instinct,
he rushes to his roaring, unwitting doom.
The joy of light perceived reaches out to him:
Death, awaiting in the happy semblance of life
and only known for itself too late.
A brief flare of elation.
A short flash of agony.
A small pile of ashes.
On Being Furniture
I am a beige chair.
With corporately stylish lines of a decade past,
I blend in with the soothing tones of the wallpaper
in a doctor's waiting room.
I am neither uncomfortable nor pleasant;
Simply available for a moment's respite
while others consider the fate of their lives.
Personal Meditation†
† In olden times, a traveler would carry a smoldering ember packed
in sawdust in a metal tin for the purpose of starting a fire. Use of the
resulting fire engendered light on many a dark night.
Remove the dingy tissue paper of which I am so fond.
"It makes it look pretty."
-It hides what's inside.
Tear off the bow.
"It adds the finishing touch."
-It mocks the gift.
Throw away the metal box I don't need.
"It adds support."
-It places boundaries.
Scatter the soft packing dust to the wind.
"It cushions so well, though."
-It smothers.
Find the smoldering bit of ember.
"It'll never be anything."
-I've known it before.
Separate it by itself.
"You've discarded everything I gave it to make it presentable."
-Good riddance!
Blow; gently.
"Why are you doing this?"
-Come and see.
And ever so slowly, a delicate flame rises.
"It's going to go out."
-Not this time.
Not this time…
To My Dearest Friend
To my dearest friend-
Ah, to be so close,
as extensions of each other;
like an arm or a heart,
maybe lungs to help each other breath.
A head and a body;
it's hard to say who
was what
to whom.
And though you've been gone so very long
there's still the pain
every time I remember what we shared.
It's as though I've lost a faculty.
I used to be able to do something,
and now I can't;
and I've learned to live without it.
I guess I'm healing.
But even if everything heals perfectly,
the scar is still there.
That old war wound
which hurts every time it rains.
What do you do…
Sitting around a table, drinking:
"What do you do when your car breaks down in the middle of the desert?"
"You get out and walk toward your destination."
"You hitchhike."
"You wait until another car comes along and picks you up."
"Then you ride as far as they'll take you."
"You keep going in little rides."
"What do you do, though, if no one is going the way you are?"
"Then you keep walking until someone is."
"But you'd have to find someplace to camp for the night."
"You could eat what people threw at you."
"And wear what people cast off."
"I bet you'd be pretty grateful, too."
"Every little bit would help, for sure."
"What do you do when no one will pick you up?"
"Why wouldn't they?"
"Because you've been walking too long and you stink."
"Oh, I bet people would pity you."
"They'd throw things out the windows of their cars for you to eat
and wear."
"You already said that."
"What do you do when you run out of food?"
"What do you do when there's no more cars?"
"What do you do when your clothes wear out?"
"I guess that's when you die."
"Pass me another beer, will ya?"
Tuesday Haiku
I hear your heart beat.
We lie, spent; I on your chest
enraptured with you.
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