never worried much

I never worried much
about loneliness
but it is so cold
now that I am happy
finally sober and on some road
to some kind of purpose
to my sweet spot
at my job, in my writing
it is cold, but not freezing
freezing might impel me
toward somebody
some company
but this,
this is the lethargy
of the satiated deities
with protruding bellies
inclined to arrogance
with no one
not one soul in the world
to long for

what they say

it's true
what they say
worlds
fade away
crumble
or implode
with the insurmountable load
of beings, ungracious
but space
is spacious
and living, forgiving
we find our center
where the lender
and the debtor
learn each one
better

what passes for a political view around here

the Buddha
holding up a flower
is about as progressive an act
as I can think of

if we are doing more
or less
in my mind
we are spinning
our wheels

still, there is much to be done
let it be done
but keep the eye of your heart
on that flower

to complicate matters (OCD days)

the hospital chaplain asks
"Who are you to tell God, No?"
but never inquires
exactly
what I think
God
wants

regrets come in pairs

deaths of this nature
never ones we hope for
and do we hope for
any death?
perhaps --
the merciful end
to a painful struggle
the sudden passing
in bed

and did I love you
as I once asked you
not, "do you love me?"
but "COULD you love me?"
our love-making
contingent on the answer

and did I blame you
for an overdose, or a suicide
or that slow dulling of soul
that is addiction?

forgive me,
I truly did

refused to talk to you
because I could not understand
who you were
where you were going

fumbling for the ocean

you reach out
in darkness of night
of soul
of heart
for an ounce of solace
a drop of your own empathy

in your false grief
like an actor's
or a lawyer’s
or that of a child
who has been given way too much

yet a year after his death
when you light a memorial candle
a real one, a Manischewitz
blessed by a rabbi
in the People's Republic of China
unlike the chakra candles
and the tealights
you lit for your mother
you read the mourner's Kaddish
not your own prayers,
the ones you improvised for Mom
fancying yourself
an unappreciated closet rabbi

the well opens
and you are glossed
by a surge of tears
the ocean you reached for
but could not find
had been waiting
all this time

Tormato

She studies the album jacket, the song list on the back, the odd cover photo.
The music shop owner says he doesn’t know much about the album -- Tormato, by prog-rock band, Yes.
I step in to tell her what I know of the cover.
Critics had been crapping on Yes for some time. When their producer showed them their new album cover, commissioned by an artist who photographed a man in a suit, dowsing with two sticks on the British tors (hills), drummer Alan White cursed, and threw a tomato at the expensive art work. The band decided to include the smashed tomato on the cover, naming the album Tormato. It was a middle finger to the critics who, in any event (they assumed), were going to throw a proverbial rotten tomato at the finished product.
The woman decides to buy the album (for the $3 asking price), if nothing else, for the story.