poem

 Survival Mode

First, identify someone to hate—

Your lousy dad,

The one who broke your heart,

The one who got away,

The one you convinced to stay

And hate them with all

That’s left of your flayed atrophic heart.

Then sit down on the back patio

And sip your gin and watch the bats

In the backyard tracing blind patterns 

In the low gray insoluble sky.

You start to hear a low hum

That locates you above the fray.

When you close your eyes you know where you are—

The last place on earth

With just enough love

To keep you alive

7/12/25

poem

 Frame of Reference

Modern physics tells us that if you are in an enclosed area without any reference to the outside world, it is impossible to tell whether you are moving at a constant rate through space or standing still. These isolation bubbles are everywhere and nowhere. Shut the door. Draw the curtains. Change the channel. Close your eyes.

Now there are medicines you can take to simulate the feeling of motion— a surge of adrenalin, the dropping, tumbling feeling in your gut, the sense of momentary imbalance, the invisible ether rushing at your face. There’s another pill you can take to slow things down. You can toggle back and forth. You don't have to go anywhere. You don't have to do anything. It doesn’t matter anymore whether you’re actually moving or at rest. You simulate the feeling. Everything that happens is just inside your head. Which is no different than it was before the pharmacologic revolution. 

Most people use them inappropriately. Fully medicated, they jump off a cliff and there’s no sense of falling. It’s like waiting at an intersection for the light to turn green. A doctor's office for the nurse to call your name. I know a guy on high dose therapy who never leaves his bed. But in his mind is a whirling dervish of activity, a workaholic, a doting father and husband, a self made man who gives back to his community who never sits still for even a second.  

What are the references now? Where are the walls? Well, we destroyed them all. How are you doing, someone asks.  And I look at them the way I would stare at a stranger in a dream. How did you get here? I don’t recognize you. You aren’t real, yes, but seem entirely unique. I’ve never seen you before. How is that possible? Is this how the unconscious mind reckons with physical abandonment? The original creation myth. This person can’t hear what I’m saying. They seem to be getting closer and closer while I get farther and farther away. From my perspective this person is like a raindrop rapidly retreating back into a dark cloud high in the sky. From her perspective she is shouting as loud as she can directly in my ear. She is thunder but no one is scared. One of us is moving. One of us is at rest. The Moon revolves around the Earth which revolves around the Sun which revolves around the center of its galaxy which revolves. Somewhere is a still point around which the entire universe spins. At the still point there is a room without windows or doors. If someone is in there, the world doesn’t exist. If it’s empty, it does. 

7/12/25

poem

 Uniforms

They all wear the same uniform so we know which team they’re on

There are no names or numbers to remind us 

To treat them all the same

Every morning the soiled ones get washed

I retired my assigned jersey years ago

Now my white coat hangs in a hall of shame

When I come to work I just take

Whichever random one is hanging 

In the doctor’s room lounge

Today I’m Dr Zanzibar, eminent gerontologist

The coat hangs down to my ankles

And the sleeves hide my hands 

Now I’m on the wrong team

I adopt a weird posture so no one will know who I am

In the pockets are rings of keys and cookie crumbs 

Each key opens a different door in the hospital

I make my rounds, check that every door is locked

One of the keys opens the linen closet

Where all the laundered gowns are stored

They smell so warm and clean

I remove the white coat and put one on

Now I’m nobody

It fits just fine

A nurse ties me up in the back 

And escorts me back to my room

7/12/25