—I’VE HEARD ABOUT DEATH, BUT I’M NOT SOLD

 

 

Hanging in L.A.

 

     The poster stapled on the palm tree read WE BUY SOULS and when I called the number my father answered though he’d been gone years though he’d collected plenty which must have been why the line went dead again same as second chances or some sucker’s sense of hope wrong number after all

—I DON’T EXPECT YOU TO UNDERSTAND 

 

(CAUTION: Before you read this, know that I am okay. I was not okay when I wrote it yesterday, but I am now. A good friend of mine once asked me what it felt like to have depression and I more or less bungled my reply. These notes are probably a better answer, or at least it helped to write them.)

 

…It’s pretty easy to hate yourself. Most times you don’t even have to try.

 

…I picked a really bad day to be depressed.

 

…Sometimes I can’t even write it out.

 

…Maybe we’re all just acting and I’m as bad at it as the next guy.

 

…I guess it’s not always about me, although it always feels like it is.

 

…“You can’t handle the truth.”

 

…If it’s not about that, then what is it about?

 

…It’s hard to feel good about yourself when you’re looking in the mirror I look at.

 

…Even the sunshine doesn’t know it’s dark out.

 

…I’m the last person I want to talk to today because I never shut the fuck up.

 

…At least I have these twigs. That’s something.

 

…Everything is the color red. Even the lake.

 

…“All you need is love” sounds a lot like “Sending you my thoughts and prayers.”

 

…Smile like you mean it.

 

…Maybe the problem is caring too much.

 

…When the wind’s ripping hard, like it is right now, that sheet of plastic outside my window looks a lot like a ghost with a vendetta. 

 

…Why is it people love bunnies so much but hate rats? Aren’t they both just animals? 

 

…If people can still support Satan, doesn’t that make America meaningless? Isn’t everything you thought you believed in since you were a kid just a fucking joke?

 

…I should probably tell somebody they’re doing a good job.

 

…Failure actually is an option.

 

…It feels like my heart is trying to beat itself up.

 

…What do you do when the world wakes up when you don’t want it to?

 

…Maybe if Lucy was here.

 

…For a second there I thought my watch forgot about me.

 

…Misery really doesn’t love company. It doesn’t love anyone. Not even itself.

 

…If the answer is blowing in the wind it must have flown right by me.

 

…What’s amazing is I haven’t even read a shred of news today.

 

…There doesn’t always have to be a reason, but I’ve got nearly 65 of them.

 

…It’s too bad you can’t cut-and-paste days.

 

… How many times do you need to die before you know you’re dead? 

 

…Maybe I need to get skinnier.

 

…I think this is helping. Is it helping?

 

…I’m really good at dispensing advice, but pretty lousy at taking it.

 

…Tomorrow can’t be like this, can it?

 

…The problem with what you’re supposed to do is there’s no way you’re going to do it when you're like this. 

 

…This is about the only place I’ve gone today.

 

…I saw some movements in the yard by the lake two doors over that I thought was a deer and to get a closer look I bent down and looked through the window but then it was gone so I thought I’d imagined it or made it up because I really needed some good luck but then sure enough he showed up in the guy’s back yard and that might have been the silly thing that saved me.

 

…Let’s please not do this again, please? 

 

—LOSING MYSELF TO THE COMPROMISING

 

Speakeasy 

         after Donna Hilbert

 

Grief is a river

I can’t swim 

outcropped rocks 

nicking my skin 

an eddy dragging me 

down where the undertow 

tests its octave 

inside a speakeasy

each gurgle of air 

a globe of hope or prayer 

popping over the surface 

like a fresh sin 

or debts someone else

should settle soon 

while wise old owl 

perched crooked 

in the pine

wishes us all 

Happy Earth Day!

looking upriver

 —IF I HAD SOMETHING REALLY SPECIAL, I’D MAKE SURE TO GIVE IT TO YOU

  

Make-believe

 

      You tasted like the taffy I stole on the boardwalk the day my brother shouted Punk and Adopted and Fag and the flabby owner ran his ass over the slats while I flipped him off without looking and the granny in front of me wasn’t looking either as I caterwauled into her and later I heard she smashed her skull on a beach rock somehow dying like that just like that just like the first kiss we shared in the sun in Jersey when everything looked painted make-believe and cheerful same as a beachball sailing into the surf so beautiful that people just stare instead of chasing after it

 

—WHEN YOU’RE CONFUSED LIKEME, JUST DANCE

  

…It’s interesting how much the important people in your life dictate what you do, what you think, or even feel.

And that’s just a curious, random thought, not a judgement whatsoever.   

 

…We have to laugh or we’d never stop crying. Right?

 

…“It’s a sign of times.”

 

…(I wrote a lot after that, but then, like a skittish coward, even to myself, I deleted it.)

 

…Maybe I just need friends more than other people do.

 

…“Of course, beauty in and of itself has never been enough.” Jim Moore

 

…I guess the question is, Do you really want an answer, or just some line so that we can both go back to what we were doing before you asked?

 

…In any story or poem I read, the word death always gets most of my attention.

 

…How is ¾’s of a cup of cereal a serving? Are they talking about feeding ants?

 

…Those marbles in the jar? I think about them a lot. Maybe too much.

 

…Why do I like orange so much? I guess it’s a bright spot when I see it.

 

…I did see three tiny deer half-prancing across the road the other day. They could not have been cuter.

 

…I haven’t ever clicked on a bra advertisement in my life, yet I get them all the time. Explain that one.

 

…“I’m not sure I get it all”—I’m getting used to that. 

 

…Sometimes it doesn’t feel the same until you feel it for yourself.

 

…I could tell you I don’t care, but that would be a lie.

 

…When you’ve got something that other people don’t, what do you do with it?

 

…It’s a sad day when you stop rooting for your country.

 

…I hate him so much.

 

…Sometimes the best thing you can do is hang up before they answer.

 

…When someone writes, “Just thinking about you,” that’s a gift you should pay attention to, and cherish.

 

…You can fake a lot of things—orgasms and such—but you can’t fake joy.

 

…It’s funny the things that scare me now. Or maybe it’s not so funny.

 

…Even though I fake it most times, I’m never going to be what people want me to be. 

 

…It’s a bit of torture, but I have an Esquire article saved on my computer about The Falling Man and I often click on it by accident—that photo of him, flying or falling upside down through the sky beside the south tower, like it’s an ordinary act to do so. Like it’s just a day, same as any other.

 

...I just realized I get PJ Harvey and Parker Posey mixed up. My son does that with Snow Patrol and Cold Play. I’m pretty sure no one’s ever mixed me up with anyone. Well, maybe Gumby.

 

…If you poked around my office, you’d see a lot of silly-looking tchotchkes placed here and there. But they’re all there for a reason. Each one means something.

 

…I wish I sounded as hopeful to myself as I do when writing to some of my friends.

 

…Sooner or later we’ll all be gone.

 

…Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to have had a real conversation with my mother. Like, What are you so afraid of? What are the things you truly love? Have you ever thought of getting help for yourself? What really happened?

 

…“Show, don’t tell.” That’s a flashing sign I have in my head, and have had implanted there for a long spell. But sometimes, you have to break that rule. Sometimes the best course is to tell, and tell again. 

 

…“Why do people have to be so horrible to people?” That was someone’s post on social media. And isn’t that a great question?

 

…It always seems easier when you’re not the one doing it.

 

…It’s pretty easy to tell who your friends really are. (Do I say that a lot, because it seems like I do?)

 

…You can tell me I’m special all you want, but I’ll never believe you.

 

…The cover never tells the real story.

 

…Yeah, I’m talking to you.

 

...What last weekend taught me is I need to stop being so coy and just spell it out, no matter how pedestrian. No one’s going to spend time parsing your meaning when your last name is mine. 

 

…Some mornings it’s just me and the morning, nothing else. And I like it that way.

 

…It’s interesting how, if you name something, it automatically becomes more special. For instance, Cashmere sounds good, but Mongolian Cashmere sounds a lot better, richer and more exclusive. What about Snohomish Cashmere? Yeah, maybe no. Maybe not so much. Forget what I said earlier.

 

…“Everything is make-believe, even the believable stuff.” Jonathan Cardew

 

…Loneliness is never lonely for company.

 

…Sometimes I even forget to ask myself whether or not I’m happy.

 

…“If only we could grasp it, how rare it is to be a life at all.” Jim Moore

 

…Waiting for a message can be excruciating, but then, you have to stop and remind myself how lucky you are to be waiting at all.

 

…When someone texts you, “How are things?” you’re supposed to say, “Things are good. How about you?” yet isn’t that just a bunch of superficial shit?

Someone asked me that question the other day and so I thought, I’ll just be honest, even if honest is ugly. And you know what? She really listened. And then I listened to her bad stuff. It was okay, after all. I’m glad I did it.

 

…Do I think alcohol made me a fool more times than not? Absolutely. There were many shameful moments I can’t take back. But there were also times it made me brave when that’s the thing I needed most. 

 

…You know what? It’s brutal, but you rarely get s second chance, and if you’re that lucky to be one of those, then don’t you think, you should take it? 

 

…Sometimes I have to remind myself: Let’s not be too sad about how sad we are about things.

 

…When nothing else works, children give me hope.

 

… “Range after range of mountains.

Year after year after year.

I am still in love.”—Gary Snyder

 

…Lately, I spend too much time trying to find out why people died. Sounds morbid because it probably is. But like, the other day I saw where this Louisiana standout wide receiver died. He’d been in a car crash previously and had killed someone, a marine, fled the scene, then turned himself in. He was awaiting sentencing but took his own life.

I’m not sure why that’s important for me to know. I guess the jolts and turns of life, or the loss of it, just fascinate me more than they should. Like this kid (he was only 24) had just turned pro and then everything changed and he couldn’t see a way forward, or felt too guilty. There are a hundred stories there.

It’s heartbreaking. But sometimes, so is life.

 

…It’s crazy how often I hear John saying, “Whoa, Sparky!” 

We were talking at 5:30 am EST, and I didn’t get it all then, what he meant, so now I’m left trying to figure it out, thinking I have it one day, thinking I don’t the next.

Whoa, Sparky! Such a John-thing to say, to leave me searching again, and again, even after he’s been gone all this time.

 

…I hate it when ads start with, “You deserve….” I mean, how do they know what I deserve? How do they know I deserve anything at all?

 

…Take your time. Slow down. Just wait a few more minutes before you write back…Those are things I never say to myself enough.

 

…You know you’ve been up too early when your watch tells you to “check your rings” at 5:15 a.m.

 

…I accidentally read a page from “A Tale of Two Cities” the other day. Page 307, and part of 308. I thought it was one of the worst things I’ve ever read. But then I reminded myself that all art is subjective—what I might detest might well be what keeps someone else alive, and hopeful. 

 

…What if the fraud wins and everyone stays bought in? 

That’s not a rhetorical question.

 

…I’ve tried, but I still don’t get Haibun.

 

…I don’t know what it means when you send your story over and right away become scared to death.

 

…“Why does so much pass by us unloved?” Garth Greenwell.

 

…When I get a nice compliment about my writing I always wonder if it’s actually something they mean, or if they’re just being kind. In so many of the workshops I take, that’s the etiquette. I’m not criticizing. I get the reason why. But I want the bald truth. Smoke up my ass doesn’t do me much good if I’m always trying to be a better writer. The one code reply I get is when they say, “That was a good story.” Then I know the piece totally sucked.

 

…(Carrie Jones):

“Someone random person over on Substack was mean to one of my animal posts last night. 

And I'm not posting a photo today because the animals aren't talking. Plus, people don't seem to interact with them as much anymore, so maybe their time is done? 

I don't know. 

On this Wednesday, I don't feel super sure about anything except there are many ways to make this world better and not all of them have to constantly include outrage--though that has a definite place and is for sure a motivating force. 

Last Friday, though, I saw this Mary Oliver poem affixed to a high school English teacher's wall via a piece of scotch tape. All under the windows were books and more books. Other poems, other bits of word and hope and truths were all along the walls. 

And that? 

It was pretty powerful.

And pretty beautiful.”

 

Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

 

…“There are so many stories

more beautiful than answers.”

– Mary Oliver

 

—IT’S NEVER TOO LATE TO SHOOT OUT THE MOON         

 

 

Nobody’s Fault

 

My old friend 

turns the corner   sharp

   after 

killing someone—

he doesn’t know who. 

There’s wreckage in 

the rearview     again, 

an untidy fog.

Somewhere 

on the floormats, 

a bottle skitters around 

like an off-kilter pulse, 

and reaching for it, 

my old friend hits 

the gas by accident— 

nobody’s fault. 

It’s so easy to get 

distracted when things 

that matter 

butt up against those 

that don’t.

I try telling that 

to this new officer, 

slurring maybe, 

patting the air behind me 

where my old friend 

used to hang, 

a trail of vapors 

looking back at me 

cross-eyed instead.

 

—IT’S A LONG GAME BUT THEY'RE GONNA TELL YOU IT'S NOT

 

 

That Day: A Relapse

 

The dopey bear 

hangs its head 

in my doorway, 

shuddering, torpor

and anguish entwined, 

nose running like Mississippi, 

eyes two loops of a red-rimmed 

sun shot down, 

and I don’t know 

what to do 

or how to breathe, 

yet I spring up as if 

eager to see him, 

my son who has 

shattered again, 

tufts of his rank fur 

swirling between us 

like wishes and regrets 

too far out of reach, 

each of us stunned 

in our own way, 

looking for a foothold 

or some sign of 

what comes next,

hibernation or something 

far more dense than that,

either way a weight 

neither of us 

can carry.