when it's understood

i enjoy poetry like i enjoy
nothing else. the playfulness of the
lines, the well-placed words,
each one necessary,
nothing wasted,
all in place,
purpose and destiny enfolding
before my eyes.
but not all poems
are understood.
some work their grief upon me,
and it's then that i enter the
cemetery to the crossroads
of roughly paved streets with cracks
and grass poking through,
to get a handle of the meaning of it all.
it's as if the spirits of the dead
surrounding me lift up for a moment
to whisper in my ear
the content i'm missing,
absent where they are
but brought to where i am,
and i'm filled
with knowledge found
once again on a page
they can never hold again.
so i hold it for those
and we do each other
this one last favor.

it's not what you think

He can’t figure out all the
Time he wasted
And the salt he tasted
Isn’t enough
to satisfy the craving
the need to start behaving
But the road he’s paving
On the straight and narrow path
is too much to grasp
What you think it isn’t
Just might be what it ain’t

decisions

I once stood at the front of the line
at a Taco Bell for ten minutes trying to decide
what to order.
Should I get a burrito or an enchilada?
A chalupa or a chimichanga?
A tostada or a taco?
Once I decided on the taco
I wasn't done.
Hard shell or soft?
Beef or chicken?
Hot sauce or mild?

Choices start when we are young.
Do you want milk or juice?
The red cup or the blue cup?
Do you have to go #1 or #2?

And it doesn't stop once we reach school.
Should we write in pen or pencil?
Print or cursive?
True or false?
Do you want to go out with me...check yes or no?

When we're older we get paper or plastic?
Regular or decaf?
Republican or Democrat?
Gay or straight?

In the nursing home, it's orange Jell-O or red Jell-O?
Bridge or bingo?
Buried or cremated?

Even in the afterlife we have one final decision
heaven or hell?

This is why it's been so hard for me to commit suicide.
Should I blow my brains out or step in front of a train?
On the one hand, I've already booked the room at the hotel.
Second floor, poolside, balcony view.
I'd spend the night with Letterman,
position the gun, pull the trigger.
I just feel sorry for whoever has to clean up the mess.
Hydrogen peroxide should do the trick.
The right mix of cornstarch and water works wonders.
Maybe I"ll leave a tip in my note.

On the other hand, I've been watching the trains.
Twelve come through town every night,
roughly forty minutes apart,
going 45 mph,
blowing their horns three times at each crossing.
I'd hide behind the big dumpster by the furniture warehouse.
Lurk in the shadows until the last minute
scurry across the weeds,
up and over the rocks
in the path of the screaming engine.
The driver would write in his logbook,
slight thud--2:20 AM.
My body would be found two days later,
in a heap
by the red and white barbershop crossing arms.

I just can't decide.
It's torturing me.
Wait a minute.
I'll just flip a coin.
Oh no...
heads or tails?