Nothing Matters

Help me understand 
why nothing matters.
Repeatedly, I listen to
a joke that is not funny.
Maybe my ears do not
work. Maybe I am drunk,
too drunk, and my mind,
my poor mind is gone. I
could barely hear my own 
thoughts. In my head
I hear dogs barking and
a tarantula dancing and
time beating backward.
I grow tired of sound. If
a tree falls, I cannot hear
it when I see it drop in
front of me. In my head
an orange sunset swallows 
a burning plane whole.
I hear my heart racing.
I pretend my heart has 
stopped. Believe me
that nothing matters.
When I think back, I 
could never find my
footing. The ground
broke my fall. Above
the sky stood witness
all day and all of the night.

Kicking Stones

I will not go along
the road without kicking 
stones that are in the way.
I kicked one so far that
it was not seen again.
I believe it went up
to the clouds. I think it
put a hole in the sun.
I believe it brought down
a satellite. The others
only exploded right
after I kicked them,
too brittle for this world.

Go Nowhere

If I could anywhere, 
I want to go nowhere.
With these eyes as
my windows, I could
see far and wide. 
I could see inside 
myself. I could hear
everything I have 
ever forgotten. I
can see the truth
which is basically 
nothing depending 
on what you believe.
I can see nowhere.
It is where I want to go.

See the Mountains

I was born where I could not
see the mountains from the
street I grew up from birth to
seven years of age. When I
moved across the border, I
saw rivers, places named after
words I did not understand,
and I saw the mountains from
the street where I lived. I had
to relearn the alphabet, to 
learn the new words, the new 
language I would use to fit in,
to get by, to make a life, a
living in this country. On a
bright early morning I saw 
people who came to this
country like me, people who
worked hard to make a living,
to feed their family, being taken
away by masked goons. I could
see the mountains where I
stood. I wondered if I went there,
if I would be safer than living
in suburban or the urban streets.

My Suits

My suits have not been used for years.
They hang in the closet worn by a man
who was more slender in those times
the suit came off the hangar. My body
has transformed over the years, been
on the operating table, cut into to get
the cancer out to allow me to live one
more decade if the fates will allow. In
this daily existence I have measured 
my steps, counted the minutes, and
worked at a mind-drudging job to pay
the bills, care for my family, and help
those less fortunate than me. My suits 
gather dust, speechless, non-judgmental
in the same place I left them. I would
need to shed twenty, thirty, fifty pounds
to wear them well, to button at least
one button, or maybe two. My ties
have suffered from the same neglect.