"...THE POSSIBILITY THAT HAS BEEN
OVERLOOKED IS THE FUTURE..."
( for Michael Hartnett )

found
penny in a puddle
year of my birth

I pocket it
as the poet passes
cap in hand

this brilliant man
sculpted from sadness
loneliness falling like rain

he goes to greet me
knowing he knows me
but my face escapes him

I only ever meet him
when the drink has
taken him prisoner

inside his head
haiku breed
"..like maggots!" he says..."...like maggots!"

"I don't want your company
or your pity!" he snarls
"Just the price of a pint!"

I have only
the old puddle penny I've found
I give him my coat

he puts his hat on
his head
at a rakish angle

the tree flies away
the bird hangs still in the air
neon scribbles on the puddles

*

The title is taken from one of Michael's poems as is the idea of a tree flying away leaving the bird in mid-air! It always greatly amused me.

The only other time I had gone to hear him read and he was too drunk to perform. I had to get a last bus back to the Curragh and by then I think he finally got around to reading.

It was absolutely lashing rain and he carried his hat scrunched up in his hand and had only a thin tee shirt on.  

He put my coat on and tramped off into a future that was falling before him.

I never saw the coat or Michael again. He had asked me if I wrote poetry too and when I said I did he said:  "Ahhh then....I pity you!"

breathing deep expands the cage
but the heart knows no rest
only some sort of acknowledgement
a distant thought of sorts
that the heart be enslaved.

I open my eyes hesitantly
awaiting the pain
that never came..

I attempt to give
my body the nourishment
it needs,
wants,
longs for
& deserves..

I drive,
screaming "Heather"
into a safe void
I made for myself
to crumble into pieces.

I realize that
with others,
everything feels out of control..
but by myself,
i am sure of everything.

I wash the day
out of my brown-red hair.

tie it back
with the hair tie
i lent you that one day..

i sit at my desk
and write..
write
write
write..

what else can i do?

what else do people do when
they are seconds from
running towards
what makes then happy..

running towards
what makes them feel at home..

running towards
what makes them feel real.. human.. most like themselves..

running towards
what makes them feel like nothing will ever stop them..

running towards
the one they were created to become & place they were meant to be..

running towards
what makes them feel  a l i v e

leaping with jubilance
into the arms of love, innocence, and vulnerability..

yet simultaneously deniably
running from
what is pulling their heart apart
into trillions of pieces
in all directions,
scattered across
the void that was once a safe space?..