To write is to offer sacrifice to the gods
who stand over my shoulder disappointed,
who sit among a crowd of ghosts
awaiting wisdom wrapped in language
ready to bestow judgment, offer encouragement
but most of all, to consume
and be consumed in the ceremonial fire.

To write is to befriend the ghosts
of Jack and Eddie arguing about
form and structure over
more drinks than either should have had.
It is to seek approval from the essence
of writers past and present
who managed to meander their way
into the audience in my mind.

To write is to simultaneously
embrace and transcend my flaws,
to wish my inner poet had a deeper voice
with which to deliver thoughts
from mind to the imaginary air,
to wish that I could speak
as if my words were a sword
masterfully wielded
with purpose and conviction.

To write is to be absolutely alone,
left frighteningly isolated
to fend off the demons of doubt and fear
in an imaginary world
where the gods themselves are of my design
and the sacrifices they demand
are in turn offered in my name.

I sipped a drink called “Joy” from Sorrow’s cup
and found it bittersweet.
Thirst unquenched, I asked for more,
which kept my spirit incomplete.

Next, I asked if I could sample “Laughter”
and with a smile, he poured the drink
which quickly chilled my weakened veins
and made my weighted spirit sink.

I thought, perhaps instead to try “Despair”
which was unopened on the shelf.
It reminded me of lemon water
and eased a part of my inner self.

I caught the barkeep by surprise
when next, I tasted “Pain”
which was like nectar mixed with honey
and felt like a welcome summer rain.

Emboldened, I demanded “Death”
and watched the liquid pour.
Quenched, my spirit soared above me
as Sorrow’s cup fell to the floor.

I hope you will be happy looking back at all the tears you never had to cry,
at all the pain you never had to feel, and all the love you chose to never share.
I hope it is somehow satisfying knowing that you were never truly hurt
because you were never truly vulnerable — always distant, never close,
never one to start — ever so afraid that having to say Goodbye
would break your fragile heart.

“Pain is good sometimes,” she said — this memory, this ghost inside my head –
this imprint of an old friend who has since ignored, forgotten, erased.
Pain is good sometimes, I say, surrounded by family and friends
creating immortal memories I cherish, wearing them with joy and honor,
like Auden’s rose on St. Cecilia’s Day long past the painful heartbreak
of having to say Goodbye.

Then what do you do when they forget about you — when you find yourself
preserving memories only you care to remember?  Is your heart big enough
to hold the dark empty void left behind each time you gave a part
of yourself away?  What happens when you vanish from their lives and
the vow you made to always remember turns into an eternal wish
that you could somehow forget?

Clicking and waiting
This is so embarrassing
Twelve hours for rice!

Formerly strangers,
as a token of friendship,
I gift you a cow

These cherry blossoms
at the edge of my small farm
are taking their time

Visiting your farm
fertilizing and feeding…
I’m not your damn bitch!

This game is pointless
I could be more productive
yet I am still here

I found a penguin!
No, I don’t want to share it,
I want to keep it!

Raspberries in two,
strawberries in four hours –
I am a loser

Billy Corgan sang
“Time is never time at all” –
T’was about Farmville

I saw a sad cow
on my way to a neighbor –
I have to refresh

Ten masked phantoms passed me by, each taking something
of myself — my youth, my health, my faith — swept in the whirlwind
of rushing ghosts. Two buildings and thousands of lives in New York,
The symbolic stadium in New Orleans — the floating bodies
and the unapologetic monsters they revealed. The dead of war –
parents who mourn their sons and daughters, many in languages I know not.
The paralyzing fear that made a nation surrender itself to a cowboy
for protection. The lust and greed that led to this economic catastrophe
Poverty, famine, disease. Scapegoating the foreigners. We chose change –
a victory based on a promise yet to be fulfilled. Ten masked phantoms
passed me by, each taking something of myself and when they left, arms full,
I was empty save for a novelty called “Hope.” I’m not comfortable with that.

We have War and Famine on speed dial
and occasionally exchange “wish you were here” e-mails
like old friends rarely gathered in one place these days.
We catch up with each other by watching Anderson Cooper
visit a town shortly after one or two of us have arrived.
This week, we’re stuck at home, quarantined
with some tamiflu and well-wishes by wire
far far far away from being who we are –
Plague and Pestilence should have been out
dancing the night away, doing our best impression
of politicians by shaking hands and kissing babies,
sharing God’s creation with the rest of God’s creation –
so what if this creation is named H1N1?
Let him cast this demonic possession back to the swine
’cause we’re getting better, we’re feeling fine
and life will go on until we are forgotten once more
and we’re in somebody else’s documentary special.
For now it’s Plague, Pestilence, and their cats
staring out the window at a fearful world –
the scythe too heavy to lift,
the weather too warm to bear,
and just considerate enough not to be ourselves.

Fred, my pet piranha, hates you –
He’s making grumpy faces every time you walk by
and it’s too bad because I think you’ve been a pretty good friend
and I don’t want you to die.

You’d think he’s mostly harmless being stuck in that tank
but you would be wrong
’cause Fred’s been taking classes and he’s very convincing
and you’ll dip your head in the water before long.

He’ll ask you to come over, even bribe you with cookies
and you won’t have a choice but to go
His mom was in marketing, his dad practiced law
and he won best-of-breed at a dog show.

Fred, my pet piranha, hates you –
and very much would like to eat you alive
so I guess it’s best that we just say goodbye
’cause Fred and I are going swimming at five.

These random thoughts conspire
too fleeting, too drawn to shiny objects
like a child who wants to talk –
this one’s about fire, now ghosts, now souls,
now human nature, how aging Christians
will be fed to lions under Obamacare,
now ghosts again — these memories I plead with,
thoughts that zoom past like the metrolink
loud, powerful thoughts with flashing red lights
and bells in the background as I wait patiently –
foot on the brake, mildly entertained, mildly frightened.
Then just when I thought I’ve caught a metaphor,
it pauses, spins mockingly and fades into reality

Once more on the brink of the unknown I stand afraid,
content to watch eternity from a stationary moment
clinging to the warmth of here and now,
helplessly slipping into the darkness of tomorrow

Sometimes the silence finds me here
Sometimes I find the peace I seek
Sometimes my youth comes home to rest
Sometimes the fairy tales return

Once more on the brink of the unknown I stand afraid,
a complacent warrior frozen by uncertainty
unable to accept what lies beyond his failing grasp
with the hope of a promise unfulfilled

Sometimes lost laughter beckons me
Sometimes I remember innocence
Sometimes a joy reveals my heart
Sometimes the man is not as broken as he thinks

Born knowing death walks behind me
Knowing he can run faster than I could.
I know he toys with me once in a while
Tapping my shoulder with a car accident
Or a painful illness for fun.

I know he’s behimd me making faces and
Deciding if he would catch up or not.
Knowing he has to do so someday.
Probably deciding what to do with me
When he catches up…maybe something new!

Don’t know who he is.  Maybe a stranger,
A friend, perhaps family, or maybe a
Machine, or a drug I’m allergic to.
He could be my shadow, or the one
I fear the most…he could be me.