Each part…

Each part echoes the whole
You have, it seems, no idea what it feels like to be me
You’re obtuse—no idea what it feels like
or what it means

My mind wasn’t right that day
Forgive me, I wasn’t focused right...
He died at age 37 in a swift, strange car crash
that may have been suicide

Meanwhile, she threatens to move to Tennessee
where she knows no one
and people like her are held in low esteem
She doesn’t smoke and she doesn’t drink

She barely eats
But she’s all the intoxication he thinks he needs
Our insights don’t reach equally to everything
Certainly not to the stings of lost pleasures, the stings


He dreams that he plays again, that he’s a player
That he’s an elite athlete who plays better, better, best
They die at least twice these men
with the loss of their skills their first death

Disappointment and loss like errant genes
are ingrained in our structures,
built, as it were, right in
We think the sad times are just exceptions

and we’re wrong about that
Of course, I said, isn’t it a fact
that you often will fuck
with your feet tied upside down on the chandelier

as you swing happily back and forth, back and forth?
She discreetly, sweetly denies this startling, astonishing, acrobatic feat
The sad, grotesque events are inevitable
they’re downright face it, normal


I thought him a subtle, refined thinker
The opposition thought him a wild enthusiast,
a hollow sophist easily refuted by bits of facts,
smart logic, shrewd questions and idle mockery

I like that kind of woman—
Childlike but no child, thin, sexually seductive, selfish
Who doesn’t? It’s a lot of fun to play with her but,
if you must, don’t obsess about it, don’t fall in love

Some called him a saint
because of his sunny, graceful temperament
He never held a grudge or returned an insult
Never mean but I didn’t think him saint-like

True, if you spoke to him
you didn’t carry back the same burdens you came with
Like some flame she comes into and out of my life
so quickly fired up, so quickly extinguished


The nearest grocery is six miles away
He walks many a fine day alone
It’s the littlest things that drive wedges between us
They broke up over nothing, it could have been anything

so little was the sympathy between them
There was a rock group that insisted
on a Thanksgiving feast after every stadium concert
Happy times of childhood realized, at last, again?

Or just a hysterical false celebration, a false reprieve, repeated to tedium...
It looks like it’s raining harder than ever
I was hoping it would stop, she said
I wish she was with me today

Each part echoes the whole
Though balanced, it’s asymmetrical
Nothing loftier here than our human hopes
Nothing ever deeper than the human heart


-May 26, 2013-