dear leonard

i must admit i prefer

the earlier edition

of the book of mercy –

the one with the jewish star

on the front

and purple.

not this pale one with the chops.

not that the language is changed,

but the language is changed.

it is somehow diminished.

perhaps, you might say,

it wasn’t by choice -

but we all make choices, don’t we?

we take pains to shape our legacy

and find our way home.

it’s not you –

it’s me. somehow feeling betrayed,

i suppose. there are priests

on both sides, after all.

so why should this matter?

you still sing the same songs,

explore similar paths.

i might still find you

at the top of the mountain,

by a column of smoke by day

or a pillar of fire by night,

wearing a robe. or a robe.

or a suit and a jaunty hat.

late in the day

i was invited to the table.
i don’t know i belong there.

i spend my time listening -
unsure what to contribute

to the process of consensus.
i sit in silence, waiting

for complexity to work itself out;
for simplicity to assert itself.

when i do speak i am welcomed.
i still feel like an intruder,

speaking of things i do not know -
trying to learn the language.

is this how it feels
on the inside looking in?

we are strangers to each other -
negotiating a thousand lost stories,

bringing them out one by one.
i’m not sure that’s sharing.

let me tell you about poetry

so i’m that guy. the one sitting in the pub reading poetry. perhaps you think i’m hoping to be noticed. which i am. not. perhaps. i’m just waiting.

perhaps i’m hoping someone will ask me what i’m reading. or writing. no one ever does. or hasn’t lately. and what if they did?

thirty-five years ago i would have said i hope to be a poet one day. i would tell you about e. e. cummings and spring (like a perhaps hand).

i would have brought out my notebook filled with impassioned pleas to be loved. perhaps that hasn’t changed. please love me.

thirty years ago i might have told you that poems should inspire. that they should speak to the soul all that it means to be human.

i would have told you i could write a poem for you that you could give to the girl you wanted to impress, and that she would smile.

i had not yet read cyrano. i had not yet read leonard cohen. i hadn’t read the psalms. but i knew there needed to be music.

twenty-five years ago i would have tried to convince you of the prophetic power of poetry. because poetry “knows you better than you know yourself”.

i would have told you how the structure of a poem shapes its meaning. how meaning is a slippery thing, and inspiration a fickle mistress.

i would have offered up poetry as a way to open up poetry. let me be part of the conversation. let me join the chorus.

i would have blanketed you in language. crafted blessings and invocations and entreaties and interrogations.

twenty years ago i would have used words to seduce you. would have tried to imbed myself in your skin like a new idea.

I would have sown words like seeds. and watered those seeds with more words. until we both drowned (and awoke).

twenty years ago i would have used these truths and dressed them up as lies that tell the truth in order to lie with you.

twenty years ago. twenty years ago is a long time ago. all my lovers are now ghosts. all my wounds have become trophies.

i wonder now if there’s any real reason to convince you of poetry. you would not believe me anyway.

perhaps you will ask if i am a real poet. whether i have been published. i might tell you i have chosen a useless profession.

i might tell you that writing poetry is embarrassing. that i find myself shamefully honest. that i am always afraid of revealing too much, or too little.

i might apologize for the fact that you will one day appear in a poem. i may not portray you flatteringly. but no less than myself.

so let me say that i am not a poet. that is too weighty a thing. let me just say that i love words.

let me just say that I have tried to be careful with them, placed all the words just so.

let me just say that these are meagre offerings. i have no illusions. do with them as you wish.

since we're talking bodies

young women and young men
lean over and tell me
(without any motive)
you’re a great dancer.
i don’t know what that means.
i should ask.
i do not ask.

i would like to think
it is because i am at home in my skin.
i know my body’s voice
and the best way to articulate its stories.

all those years in the clubs
late at night dancing alone and not alone.
how you catch someone’s eye
or someone catches yours
and how you start the conversation
of body to body.

how it is an opportunity for joy,
to celebrate the moment without expectation.

it is beautiful when dancing is honest
and without affectation.

the body is not a machine for approval.

this dance is an invitation
to sing without words
the glorious awkwardness
of skin and muscle and bone.

i still feel like a young man. 
i still exercise some control -- 
the many ways to speak the music, 
moving in time and space.

even so, it is a strange thing
dancing and being the oldest one who dances.

the one that

the one where they fall in love

the one in which the wrong decision was made

the one you wish you had kissed

the one time you laughed with your entire being

the one that ended too soon

the one refrain you keep singing over and over

the one where they couldn’t let go

the one moment you wish you had back

the one in which secrets are kept

the one you wish you had let go sooner

the one that got away

the one where someone gives it all away

the one in which the world ends

the one that gives me hope