May 18, 2021

138/365

all his heroes
are suicides.
turn out the lights
and set yourself on fire
the song says.
chris. kurt.
hunter. elliott.
how can there be so many
words for sorrow
and not one comes close
to the tangible truth
he’s known since
those first memories:
the uncle on fire
behind the waves.
the frail ankle
caught in the spokes.
the creeping hands
in the darkness.
the just getting by.
the arguing.
the solitude.  
the crashes.
the hospitals.
the split.
the plunge.
the lessons learned
(embrace the sadness)

because their candles
burn too bright,
we almost forgot
it is twilight.

all his heroes
are suicides,
and so, in this house
we long to be
room by room
patiently,
we’ll wait there
like a stone
to make the
insoluble night
more pliant, the pain
more peaceful—
a collective step
toward a palpable truth.

May 17, 2021

137/365

the young man scoffs
at the middle way.
everything in moderation
feels like a cop out.
the chav more prone to
intemperance
than impermanence.

gautama awoke
and set forth the
wheel of dharma
steer clear of the
extremes,
his whispers buried
in the highlighted
passages of well-worn books.

but there has always been
more than one book
upon the young man’s shelves:

the road of excess leads
to the palace of wisdom;
for we never know
what is enough until
we know what is
more than enough.

the edge
there is no honest way
to explain it because
the only people
who really know
where it is
are the ones
who have gone over.

what use does the
middle aged man
have for the edge
and the excess
needed to find it?

don't go in and hide;
don't come out and shine;
stand stock-still in the middle.

May 16, 2021

136/365

all i can do
is sit in this
single moment,
naming each
emotion as it falls
as a disparate stone
into this yawning well;
echoes and ripples
disrupting the otherwise
silent gloaming.

desperate to detach from
the need to control,
attachment being
the root of suffering,
or so they say.

it is loud
to hear
what we
are silent about,
but what can
privilege
possibly have
to worry about?

the world
is collapsing
in on itself
in the gaza strip,
and i may have
to do my job
via a computer
for a few weeks.

echoes and ripples.
single moments.
disparate stones.
yawning wells.
the gloaming.
a collapsing world.
the root of suffering.
the need to control.

it is loud
to hear
what we
are silent about:
the sound of oppression
is booming.

all i can do
is sit in this
single moment
and selfishly
write about
myself again
instead of them.

what can
privilege
possibly have
to worry about?

myself again instead of them.
myself again instead of them.
myself again instead of them.