dew clings to the grass
like a child clings to their mother
the sun radiates
slowly, more & more
the air crisp, warm, & damp
with the smell of coffee’s uncut bitterness
the anticipation of the day’s plans:
unmade like the bed & full of a parent’s wishful hopes
It’s very difficult for an outsider
to grasp how very little value
was placed on human life in the camp.
— Viktor E. Frankl
“Man’s Search for Meaning”
You were on a list
you had a seat in the truck
to a rest camp in the morning
or perhaps to the gas chambers
No one knew
Such was the game they played
The chief doctor
who liked you
gave you a chance
to get off the list
(and the truck)
but you decided to let fate have its way
So you walked to your hut
where your friend Otto
bled tears for your farewell
and made him remember your last will
a simple will as wills go
You wanted your wife to know
you thought of her evey day and hour
that you loved her more than anything
that your marriage outweighed all else
And you went away the next day
And it really was a rest camp
And you never saw Otto again
And the will he committed to memory
was never delivered
Auschwitz murdered millions
but you found meaning
behind its barb wire
and wrote your book
You didn’t dedicate it to Otto
but you wondered in print
on page 76
if he had found his wife again
For the sake of man and meaning
I hope so
I come alive in high summer
because of the light. The way
it enters my window early.
Whether I slept well that
night or not, I rise, called
by almost memories
of Celtic ancestors who
marked the years by
turnings of equinox, solstice.
Or maybe it’s a response
to a childhood of northern
winters, darkness
closing in on both ends
of the day. I cannot sleep
through summer light.
I am stuck between wanting to stay right where I am
And wanting to change absolutely everything I’ve known
It feels comfortable to stay in my little town, work my bartending job
Hang out with the friends I’ve known forever, drive the backroads I know by heart
But it’s exhilarating to think about all the different people I could meet
The opportunities I could encounter
The places I could see
The possibility of being happier than I am now
But, I’m stuck at a 4-way stop sign
And I’m not sure which way to go
The days turn to night, over, and over
And over again
The same thoughts everyday
But never the energy to make them come alive
I am stuck in an endless cycle of reality and dreams
And endless cycle of not knowing who I really am
Or where I’m supposed to be
I’m afraid I’ll stay stuck forever,
And just like June, life will flash before my eyes
And I will never have made it through the stop sign
On my way home from the grocery store, the four-storey mansion
that seems to have lost itself in a Kentucky suburb
while searching for a way back to its fairy tale demands
my attention, but I ignore its flowing fountain and trimmed hedges, gazing
instead at unadulterated forest, maples burnished sunset-
gold as far as horizon will allow
me to see. I imagine I am a prehistoric falcon
surveying these pristine woods before the trees
surrendered to choked highways, cracked parking lots, and overpriced
grocery stores. In this lonesome copse, we have not mined
the “wild” from wilderness. Neither axe nor plow has defiled
this land. Here, nature is as it once was, how it may be again
if we stop basking in the glory of our own creation and rediscover
the grandeur of woodlands sandwiched between suburbs.
As long as forests that seem to stretch into forever
sprout on our roadsides,
there is still hope.
be careful with small towns
they’re easy to hate
but you stay too long
see faces again and again
you feel comfortable
see yourself retire
you become a regular
at the gas station with
no gas pumps
filling that styrofoam cup
shooting the shit
with the cashier
settle
and let the world
get small
it’s a dangerous line
safe and intoxicating
in the safety
humanity are ramblers
so remember
to ramble
There are two men.
One feels everything is his diss.
Two insensitive to his sensitive.
Three me between them.
Four my words the bridge.
sit with me
tend the fire
in desert-like
Kentucky cold
under stars
newly lit
by passing
storms
their rumbles
still beat
on my chest
chasing away
memories
I
never
wanted
Lush landscapes and glistening lochs
meadows of heather and mountain tops
thick forests of olde, fairy pools, woodland friends
bluebells and thistles, hillsides and glens
countryside colored in purples and greens
possibilities of mystical, magical things
wee thatched cottages and castles of yore
harrowing history, triumphant tales galore
visions of a day when for myself I see
what seven generations have missed entirely
longing for a time when I can freely roam
wake up in bonnie Scotland, experience coming home
