To find you, here

I do not know

it is like
a poetry--

a pouring of
the gift of
God

into a 
glass--

my heart

it is warm

At the gorge of Lu

a great cataract

plunges for thousands of feet

into a violence of water

and sound.

And no living creature

dwells in the carved depths

below

Except 

an old man

named

William Carlos Williams

who swims naked 

beneath

the falls 

each and every day

at noon.

Ask him

and he will tell you

the secret

(that every other old man

has muddled

in Detail and Ego)

I go down with

the water

I come up with

the water.

So you want me to call you Doctor

he said, 

as I went to inject him with 

anaesthetic.   

I said 

Sure, yes.  That is what I am. 

But feel free to call me 

Whatever you like.   

He closed his eyes for a second 

thinking 

aught, he said

i will call you aught.   

I thought this funny 

But acknowledged him anyways 

With an Ok, Sure.   

(I was busy carrying on with my work)  

he continued  

You see, aught is a good word 

Aught implies anything. 

Aught implies that 

my death and Your death

are held equally 

in the eyes 

of each other. 

You see, i am aught, too.   

(he picked through trash 

for a living)   

I kept injecting him.   

when i die 

You will never know 

that i have done so. 

just as when You die 

i will never know. 

And it will not matter.   

I stopped his talking for a minute 

extracting a molar 

From his gum.   

And when it was done, 

he stood up from the chair 

grinning.   

thanks 

he said 

Doc 

through a clump of gauze 

fattening his cheek.   

I said 

you’re welcome 

any time.   

We shook hands 

and I watched him 

as he walked out into the Haitian sun 

his foot falls kicking up dust 

and leaving behind impressions 

that looked 

just like mine.   

I then turned 

and reached immediately 

for the hand sanitizer 

squirting some 

into my palm 

and rubbing it vigorously 

between my fingers.   

The smell of the alcohol was reassuring.   

For I had no idea what he had been digging through all afternoon.

Titan Leeds

If a doctor lets it happen,

His patients will lose faith.

If a lawyer does it, too,

He will lose his pay.

Even the maskéd hangman

pulling the lever

may regret.

But the Author has no qualms

if his foe dies in the text.

When Freedom Meets Freedom

I was driving down the road,

Passing beneath a stop light,

When I looked to my right

And noticed an odd scene.

 

A man stood in his yard,

Next to his lawn mower

Holding, what seemed to be,

A dead bird in his hand.

 

His head hung low,

As if broadcasting the sorrow

He felt in the death of

Such a helpless creature.

 

O man!  O Free Man!

Whether or not that bird

Died of those spinning blades

Because he was busy feasting,

 

You did the only thing you could.

 

Man! whether or not that bird

Fell from a limb, disabled from

Flight by the sweeping flight

Of disease,

 

You did the only thing you would.

The News of War in the Congo

A boy 

Tossed a stone 

Into a river flowing.   

It sank, 

Nearly hitting a 

Fish that swam away.   

The fish, 

In turn, startled 

A bull frog sleeping--   

That dove 

Into the water 

In search of respite.   

The shore, how ever, 

Watching it all, 

Felt nothing   

(For the 

current is swift 

this time of year).

The Worst Affliction*

The other day I heard a man

tell another man

that all his wife does is complain

and I was annoyed by this

for a second

for if the axis of the world is like

the constant collision of two bullet trains

fated by the same track

Then how is it correct

to say we suffer the worst affliction

you me us

In living dying contradiction

The Florist

Has anyone told the story of the rose?

The ins and outs of why it grows? 

How did it get red?  Was it from embarrassment? 

From what a lily said one day? 

And the scent—that scent. that has inspired 

A million poems and songs 

And breathed with a thousand romances 

From beginning to end—why?   

I stopped to smell a rose. 

Reaching out to pull it close, 

My finger grazed a thorn. 

I recoiled quick with the pain of a prick 

And cursed the redness seeping 

From my index finger.    

Why the thorn, 

Like a cat’s claw in fear? 

Had a hart consumed one once? 

And the rose, vowing never to let happen again,

Taken up the sword?   

I don’t know.  I guess nobody really knows.   

Has anyone told the story of a rose?

I guess it’s because nobody really knows.  

Letters from Far Away Places

And I know that for the rest of my life

even if we never did love

I could write you letters from far away places.

finding you in the melting of the day

the quieting of the night—cicadas

and birds in the dry leaves—

and in the oily brushstrokes

(Heavy and Undeniably placed)

Of all the passing faces.