the logical case for suicide

this complication is enormous,
and yet appears as ether. the obverse
is the elaborate snowflake under a microscope.
same riddle; not to be solved.
(even passing consideration is a waste,
unless the interest is simply awe)

so, is it fair to introduce an extra layer
of complexity to something barely understood?
it is just a roll of the dice, man,
linked, exquisitely to science.
(genetic code can whisper death and disease
surreptitiously- often does)
don’t underestimate the double helix.

and what of the blood?
limbs ripped at the fleshy anchor.
rape. (not your will, and sullied)
box of chaos. box of comets.
these are not pleasant scenarios.
these are not the Kodak moments.
this is the cancer end of a morphine drip.
this is the intruder set on your dignity, your life.
this is the loss of a child (inconceivably violent goodbye)

where is the bedrock of no hope now?
are you walking on it?
can you feel the solid disbelief?
(that it’s all come to this)

it’s a subtle shift of light.

the gun slides in so easily
(taste of metal, nothing new)
and there are lovely parting gifts.

what’s behind door number one?

-----

guns

Listen
to the pulse code.
It pumps
and talks tomorrow.
Entering fiber through
capillary's path,
ears open now. Important
coded blood pumping
heart open,
somehow.

See,
the muscle holds the secret
steel strong
gunpowder
calm.

Ready as a cannon
lit
cocked; now
the white hot pulse speaks
translates in the mirror
some bulge
in the deltoid
reborn.

Sparks
in clay of flesh
florescent.
Reflections are translations.

Bump
in the fat vein
biceps
bump
bump.
River in clay of flesh.

Muscle is the secret
bedrock shifts.
Oh joy,
The Word
forever pounds the fiber full.

-----

Dan/ 2001

For most of my life.
And until the day you died. You called me Super.
“Super, It’s your Old Man calling.”
“Super, take the High Road.”
“Super, We think you’ve gone off the deep end.”

Did you, over the years—or in the end,
ever think about the origin of that nickname?
That day it all started? Did you block it out? Forget?

Me.

The Little Fat Boy. "SuperGut."

I remember.

Your word (vicious), your son, your choice.

(SuperGut); shortened over time to just plain old "Super."

Harmless. You shortened it.
I grew out of it, and occasionally you even called me
FlatBelly.
But "Super" stuck. I still hear it tripping off your tongue.

“Super, this is your Old Man.”
Sometimes Mike or Tom will call me "Super."
It feels good, and they don’t
remember how it all started.

Me in the kitchen. 12 years old.
I wanted to join the Navy. The Navy!

“Good -- you’re too fucking fat to ever be in the Marine Corps, so go ahead.
Join the Navy. Maybe they’ll take you.”

I hated you for that.
On that day—I wished you dead a thousand times over.

And for so long—I wanted you in a box. Gone.

The years, however, replaced my revulsion for the name
with the deepest longing.

How I crave just one more time—your voice.

“Super, This is your Old Man.”

-----

sigh

Old Uncle Si
with long legs
and
promising
summit

Now
with the passing of
one moon, one sun
I see his oath to me
as vapor

just clouds in the old man's eye.

-----

the opening

you could fly to the top of that building
or the top of a mountain

Providence is moving
Angels calmly watching, just out of sight
and the truth is told in whispers

I can see your soul
in my dream- my face was not my face

-----