Little bit.

I had forgotten, in our laughing,
I had meant to tell you,
in the same instant
that I touched your arm,
to remind me that you are real,
that this week was the best week,
and thank you, but instead,
I held onto your arm,
laughing.

So now, in my remembering,
thank you.

Sometimes more often.

There are the times,
sometimes more often,
than maybe I might say,
pretending to be asleep,
alone in the house, yet,
pretending to be asleep,
and, you know, the eye,
oblivious to the sometimes
torment, of the heart,
the eye flutters open, and,
with the fluttering open,
reminding all the parts,
well, of course, the heart, part,
mostly, but really, all,
all of the body parts,
reminding them all, in some,
what would you say,using my
words, in fragile mockery,
that I would say, say,:
in some softly horrible moment,
something I'd say, it is,
all dramatic like I do,
I don't know, I mean I do,
always thinking like that,
silly, over-sensitive, but,
but back to the eye,
opening, opening,
reminding everything,
and nobody,
but me, that,
yes,the world,
is still here.

I.

Dearest I.,

Would you be so mad, and I feel certain you would,
if I just left, mysterious-like, no announcement,
no dragged out days to cry and say goodbye and are-
you-sure and all the rest, just one day I was gone
and my stuff gone God knows where, the cats I don't
know, although you would know they were somewhere
where they were happy, paintings left I guess, to some
gallery, maybe with deposit slips taped to their backs,
and a box, perhaps, with the most personal of things, left
on your back porch, would that make you saddest, or really,
maddest, the gall of my leaving, compounded by a box of half
memories, left to discover only after I had boarded some
train to nowhere? To somewhere out there?

Would postcards help, mailed, and then mailed again, from
somewhere else, disguising my secret hold-up, if they promised
that I was doing well, if even it seemed, because you know me,
that most likely I was not, because happy people, or even
people doing well, don't disappear into the night, but
even if I promised, and maybe related a happy instance,
or something that had happened in my new place that seemed
breezily pleasant, or like the kind of thing that would
happen to someone whose life was at least passably okay,
even though, as I think of it now, and knowing me, like
you do, that the postcards would become infrequent, or
always were, and then probably they would fade away
altogether?

I imagine my name from your mouth, and your lips would, for
a second, twist into sadness, but then by the end of my name,
would be twisted into, I think, more of a sneer, or at least some
shape where even a stranger could tell there was something afoul,
though I'm sure afoul would not be how you would describe it,
or me, I mean, of course for the leaving, but also for the
secretiveness, the finality of it, the unfairness that no one,
you most of all, had a chance to put in some vote, or to raise
some objection, to a plan, I'm sure, because I know you, too,
you would find stupid, and selfish, and mean. Would the mad,
the mad you felt, because I guess it would, taint the everything
else? Would you be more mad at the tainting, or at me?

Would you take my side, at least, wouldn't you, when it would come
up, at a party, or somewhere else inappropriate, and folks wouldn't
seem as fazed, or maybe they would come across as, or be, completely
unaffected, would you then, in those moments, ally you with me, maybe
see me, for those brief moments, as, if not heroic, or righteous,
because probably you would not, but sympathetic, or maybe, in a
piteous way, understandable? Could I ever seem understandable?

I mean, I., I am only asking, is all.

I am only asking.

Love, me.

Osh Kosh.

In search of something else,
an old photo album falls from shelves.
Photos of thirty-seven years.
I remove, maybe, ten.
Photos, I mean, I guess,
not years.

Although really, I may mean years,
after all.

I throw the rest into the trash.

The thought of so many memories,
laying, filthy, in a landfill,
is exhilarating,
in a nauseous, spiraling,
kind of way.

Goodnight, little girls.

Here, then, is a song of chance,
of rock and roll, and real romance.
And oh,
the way your heart pumps harder,
when you dance.

These past few days have found me dressed in preview,
summer's pinks and khakis, inappropriate to season,
and, in few days time to be laid back in tomorrow box,
with knowing nods, and see you soons.

My guitar plays louder and faster these days,
drowning, finally, the barbs still hurled,
by lovers lost.

My hi-road shoes tap dance on top of your
jejune jerking, ladies! My wizened eyes smile,
it's okay! Fill your hearts!

For so will I!

I have learned to see the sun, through even
grayest of clouded sky.

I love you, fireball, me and moon, we are
your mirror, your faithful friend.

Thanky.

Sunset.

Bourbon.

Sunrise.

Coffee.

And night.

Because I don't eat.
Because I can't sleep.
And oh, how I drink!
It just makes me think,
that I'll die.

But I don't.

And I will.
But I won't,
right now.

Oh, Lord,
won't you just
drive me home?

Plans for the day.

Open windows.
Play piano.

N.

Badass, and my friend.

Okay.

There are beautiful,
and, happy making,
days ahead.

Thank you, sisters.

Thank you, family.
Thank you, friends,
new and old.

Thank you,
A.

Thank you,
N., forever,
B.,
T.

Thank you,
K.,
K.,
C.,
Mrs. L.

Thank you,
women.

Thank you,
depression and hope,
in equal parts.
Thank you, God,
whoever you are.
Thank you,
hands and eyes.
Thank you,
heart.
Thank you, fear,
and courage.
Thank you,
tears.

I am riding this one,
down, to the end of the line.

B.

Like thunder, like the laughing of children,
we rolled down grass hill, the whiskey,
the cold, numbing our skin to the burs
that clung to our palms and fingers.

Lie down in gravel roads.
Moon illuminate our happy scratches.

We are in the club
of us.

Forever, you remind me,
put body to grass,
roll down hills.