You’ve told me before you have a hard time
writing about things that make you happy.

I like to think that’s why
you never write about me anymore.

rain-dreary and
dog-tired, the tree
bows its head

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