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Making My Own Acquaintance
I used to smoke, crave it, enjoy it.
Now it’s something people do
who are ambivalent about life,
not sure if they want to live or die.
I used to drink a lot.
It was the high and low of my day.
Now it’s what people do who are in pain.
Their pain has taken on a life of its
own
and needs to be fed and cared for
like a lost soul they’ve brought home
from the bar.
I used to feel sad and needed that
sadness
to have something to escape from
because without it I’d be left alone
experiencing an uncomfortable silence
with a stranger.
Afghanistan
In bed, prolonging the moments
before pushing back the covers.
The voice on NPR, a reporter in
Afghanistan,
refers to the spring fighting season
as if he’s announcing the opening
of ski season at Mt. Hood Meadows.
I brush my teeth, minty fresh, extra
whitener.
Death tolls from suicide bombings.
Toweling off after showering, it’s total
US casualties,
a number that could be the population
figure
of a small city. A city of dead young
men and women.
The refreshing lather lifts my beard
as my triple bladed razor shaves my face
kissable smooth.
Tell me again why we are there while I
am here.
Getting Through the Day
How hard is it to get through your day
without getting angry,
or swearing at the car in front of you
for going a little slow?
Or hating someone you really just don’t
understand?
How hard is it to get through your day
without pulling a knife or chambering a
bullet?
How hard is it to not thrust that blade
or pull that trigger?
And what does it mean for the rest of us
if the people you respect, look up to,
idolize,
encourage you to do just that? To
thrust, to squeeze, to kill.
Are we back to building backyard bomb
shelters all over again?
I linger over the Cold War and laugh at
the peace dividend.
I hear songs from the 60s and laugh some
more.
Love thy brother? How can I love someone
who can’t get through the day without
taking from another
that which is most precious?
Meeting my Past
Some insights are so clear to me today
that I accept them as truths.
But only a few years ago
I would’ve been hesitant
to consider them at all.
If I met my old self on the street
and we talked over a meal,
I’d consider him problematic
and be concerned for his future.
I’d have no desire to be pals
and would walk away after our meal,
relieved to be free of him,
and he’d probably feel the same.
His addictions would make him uneasy.
My sobriety would remind him
of the demons nipping at his heels
that he would soon have to face.
But he’d come up with another reason
to avoid that thought.
He’d say to himself,
that guy is quiet, that guy is dull,
and his impatience to lift his next
drink
would write me off.
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