the boatman

“you must suffer,” quoth the boatman

poling the dead black waters

“have you not met those who never hurt?”

boards creak on dark waters

i stare into the inky murk but do not dive

not yet, not yet, not yet, but

“you must,” he intones, impassionate as moonlight

so i carefully unbutton, remove, fold

standing on the deck, on the edge, nude

colder now; afraid now; “you cannot want it,”

he drones on, all coffin velvet and pyre heat

and i know he speaks the truth but i reject it—

“you must suffer,” again, and again, and

i cannot force my body down.

naked; weeping on the wooden boards,

ripples lapping underneath with rotten teeth

infuriated by my weakness; ashamed of comfort;

he is not watching. i break the neck of hesitance

and before i hear it snap i dive.




well, now: the shock of frigid water slapping me

the bite of fangs, the rip of fingernails

crush of the boat’s heel against my skin, my ribs,

my strong bones buckle in the press: the ichor

choking out my life from lungs—reel and thrash

and gasp for air: but suck in only thick liquid death;

eyes wide, battered legs kicking out, heaving

but every intake only forces water deeper in—

i will die, i realize; perhaps i am already dead,

mind darkening in a fogging glass. then

air—a gasp—before fierce currents pull me down again.

i cannot hear him now but i hear him anyway

“there is no relief; to hope is not to suffer—“

a sharpness in my calves; a puncture in my chest;

another choke, another gasp, another death—until

the skin of water overhead lies still and black and foul.




coughing, sputtering, vomiting: my frail hands on wood

dragging me dripping back, to exhausted roll and pant

and gag, and spit, and wheeze, and lie, and sit.

“you must suffer,” quoth the boatman, “to see—“

and i do, i do, i see it all from dying eyes, edges dim:

everything the same. the world goes on its way.

stars arc in their holy indifference; wind howls lonely

and eyes growl from human masks scarred and fierce.

strength unwilling seeps back into my crooked bones

as i wrap my body in discarded clothes, now

heading back, now at the dock, now inside somewhere

now in a warm shower, now in a soft bed, now in

someone’s arms, now holding children, now victorious,

now wealthy, now achieved, now admired, now

old, now in a gentle sunset, now at a kitchen counter,

now in a quiet room, now in soft chairs, now asleep.

but the eyes that screamed in that black pool

are the eyes that stare at all these things,

eyes unchanging, only more tender for having wept:

more merciful and hesitant—but wide no more,

afraid no more, though the dark edge fog never fades:

they gaze from a boatman’s face, and i grimly quoth—







july 2023

heat

heat lightning over the miniskirts

all of us downtown in our suits

horizons of marble dome buildings

one guy with sunglasses and a folded umbrella

Here it is, we say—here’s power

91 degrees outside and sweaty:

the universe watches, amused—

scars of light flashing grim and silent overhead

july 2023

the lion & the bird

i cared for it

nurtured, desired

hoping i helped

fearing i was selfish:




so i had the bird live outside of cages

knowing one day she will heal.

she sits outside the window, just there

but one slippered morning, seeds in hand




i’ll return inside

alone with grief

having won

having lost.

july 2023

the blank malaise

i found him sitting in a long drift stare

asked him the deep question with my eyes

huddled in his silence waiting on it

the fear, the longing, the warm summer dawn,

waiting on the answer to a panic scream.

i buy him McDonalds; we throw rocks in a stream

like little kids—only we don’t, i never speak

and we never move from that spot. he yearns.

he wants to know something. his eyes drift

wildly in the sky, seeing stars behind my head.

his hands are limp, palms up, in his lap.

one childhood afternoon, he took a shit

in the woods—such as there were, in suburbs—

then pale guilt cast a pallor over him for days.

it didn’t feel this way a couple years ago,

he thinks: he can’t remember; i’m looking away.

i’m pulling back; up; look, i am partially a star

and the pieces of me will be galaxies again

someday, you know; so then my focus drifts

away from things that happened, and will again

ad infinitum, miniature lives repeating without end.

it doesn’t help him, of course. we are still here

sitting in his blank malaise, gathering ourselves

for the inevitable march of life and time.

i’ll find him here again, i suppose: we’ll stand,

brushing off our pants with a knowing look

and proceed into the pallor of our days

leaving what we left silently behind.







june 2023

blue flame

I hold the blue flame in my open hand

A summer’s promise indomitably blooms

The balanced pebbles shiver as you take your seat

Nobody strike the table—now let us begin

Dark Luna casts her ambivalent gaze and fog

Deepens on the windows in a gathering dawn

I hold the blue flame in my open hand

Daring to believe the reach, the move, the risk, the light

Is all of it, and nothing, and all of it again

Billowing ghost of unformed meaning, speak

We are all children, heavily at play

We are the mornings after nights in living dream




june 2023