my only courageous act
is now
to put pen to paper
to write
this is trite
and easily dismissed
by many and by myself
but the truth is
it’s been over a year
since i’ve allowed myself
to bleed.
—
i’m drinking
watching a PBS program
about volunteers that greet
soldiers
a program
about the goddamned wars
about the wretched and beautiful ones
who, for whatever reason
have given themselves over
to the choice
to become the walking dead
—
so i have no reason
or excuse for having
avoided my self
and this horrid
unreasonableness
for so long.
—
on the screen
is some old geezer
giving his waning days
and nights
to women and men who
insist upon calling him
sir
but all he wants to do
is share some smokes and bullshit
over coffee in a snowstorm
in the shadow
of some podunk airport
terminal.
—
i feel selfish and small
to feel so joyous and grand
for this effort,
this pittance of craft.
—
this tiny poesy
is mean
and crude
and, by outer observance,
crass.
—
- but i must remain proud
in this moment
regaining my self
line by line.
—
GJK
13NOV09
—
