It has started to die;

I know because I can see 

Myself not being here,

Like when you realize 

You already left home

Before you are actually

Out on the road away. 

I see now when I’m gone

What’s the difference (sigh)?

I’m never was as I thought;

Contrary to what my ego always said,

I am never--(never was the ocean, a redwood, a volcano…)

In real life I was an ephemeral formation,

An ancillary incorporation of energy;

Transient, interchangeable

"Petal on a black bough."

My blazing ego a mere fire

Dependent on a feed

That turns to ash.

Put my useless remnants upon

Your forehead, so that I may 

Disappear serving a real purpose.

 BEST ADVICE: STFU

557 MP. CO. CP Humphries, South Korea.

1997, December, 2 A.M.

ALERT! We sprang from out dreams into action. My platoon was the protection force for the company area; our squad was tasked with setting razor wire on the perimeter. The night was deep black and cold; I was a tired, half-ass soldier--high ranking in bad attitude.

I looked up as Sgt. Walker was passing, impulsively shouting, "Why do we even have to do this Sergeant?"     

He stopped, looked me dead in the eye, replied, "McCloy, YOU JOINED THE ARMY! Now shut the F*** up and do your job." He stared at me for a moment after words, watched as my soul became a gnat. Then, He abruptly turned, stridently marching off.

I did my small part, setting the razor wire in clouds of frozen exhalations, muting my inner whining. Ever since, when I hear that childish, pitiful inner voice, I just look right at it and tell it: Shut the F*** up--do your duty!

--Robert McCloy, Sgt. U.S. Army

 Why I Teach

Of course I shouldn’t be here, but I am.  Fortuna can be chary, then charitable like that. I was born of broken pieces. A vessel composed of bladed shards--to touch them was to bleed.  But one did so anyway; he had endured worse before coming upon that deadly disarray that I was when he found me. 

The Japanese have a profound art called Kintsugi; it saves broken pottery by creating new forms, mending the pieces with liquid gold.  This is what he did; he figured out how I could be whole and thus began our journey.  Adhered by golden attention and devotion; Adorned by silver support and praise, I became a poet.  This strange practitioner of Kintsugi hailed from the dead steel town of Monongahela, Pennsylvania rather than Japan.  He was Mr. Jim Demcheck, my high school creative writing teacher.

I was not.

I was not.

I was not.

I was not supposed to be, but I am.  That’s the miracle.  A broken boy became a unified man because there was one who understood his pain; one who had the courage to pick up the pieces. Of course there is more to his story.  I’m sure you have figured; he had been born broken too. 

I teach because I was taught to do so.  I am an English teacher because an English teacher taught me to see myself as a purposeful human being.  He heard me, and when he did so I realized--slowly, so slow that I am still realizing--that I had a voice.  A real voice.  A true voice.  A strong voice.

I was born of broken pieces.  A bird constructed of feathers strewn after a kill.  One--a patient one--poured water into the vessel, breathed life into the form.

There is still a broken boy within me; but that’s truly where the poetry began, and I love him.

And that’s how I was taught. That’s why I teach.

10/2024

COMMON SISTERS FROM AFAR

From afar,

I am...I am 

Wondering who you are.

Communication is never

Conclusive or real; 

We would have to exchange souls

To truly understand how we feel.

Hey common sister,

Would you wear my soul

If it were possible?

Could we marry our minds

Somewhere in time?

Could we form a flame

And transcend our Bodies?

Hey common sister,

Can I wear your soul;

Is it possible?

From afar,

I am...I am.

Are you wondering 

Who you are?

    James Demcheck & I

    Thomas Wolfe Memorial Angel

    Asheville, NC

 

I saw you.

The blue petals of your eyes

Stranded in empty skies.

The tenderness in your lips.

The crookedness of your teeth.

The child so eager to live

Buried underneath.

HUMANITY

Sophisticated, supreme;

Only animals of immense intellect

Can create their own extinction.

 Wildfires

out of control,

That’s why they got me

My wildfire bike when

I was 6 with a fiery 6 plate

On front, flames always reaching out,

I peddled

A gusting flame…

Look at him go!

Fire, fire, fire.

How did they know (?)

Cause they were too (?)

Pain fed anger

Exploding at the slightest

Eye roll or tear.

They were too

With their weekend weed

And old Milwaukee tap…

Look at them go!

Fire, fire. fire.

Wild hungry flames

We are out of control.

That’s all I seem able

To remember. 

#poetry 

Drink All the Beers

Unbearable 

Feelings, unspeakable

Even if we talk all night,

Drink all the beers,

Take everything off…

Still existential pathos

Of our isolation

Is sealed in our souls.

Grief

Ever-fixed…

We can never feel enough

To be free

(Faith can move mountains,

But we will never have enough).

Somewhere in time

We lived a life,

You and me,

And Walt Whitman at the window

Peeking in, smiling of course.

Somewhere, perhaps it was a dream,

Perhaps that’s more than enough:

Fallen asleep, alone

We are finally free 

To be as one. 

2/4/24