Bach, come back
sitting in this old chair, listening to Bach,
the music splashes across me, refreshing, delightful.
I need it, tonight I feel like a man who has come back
from the same old war, death in life,
as my guts say not again, not again, to have fought
so hard for what?
too often, the only escape is sleep.
Bach saves me, momentarily.
so often I hear my father laughing, the dead laughter
of the father who seldom laughed in life
is laughing now.
then I hear him speak: "You haven't escaped me.
I appear in new forms and work at you through
them.
I'm going to make sure that hell never stops for
you."
then Bach is back.
Bach couldn't you have been my father?
nonetheless, you make my hell
bearable.
I have come back from suicide, the park bench, it was a
good fight
but my father is still in the world,
he gets very close at times
and suicide creeps back into my brain,
sits there, sits there.
as old as I have gotten,
there is still now no peace,
no place,
and it has been months since I,
myself, have laughed.
now Bach has stopped
and I sit in this old chair.
old man, old chair.
I still have the walls, I still have my
death to do.
I am alone but not lonely.
we all expect more than there
is.
I sit in undershirt, striped pants, slippers.
hell has a head, hell has feet and a mouth,
hell has hair and nostrils,
hell curves down and encircles me
and I think of bridges, windows,
buildings, sidewalks,
last New Year's Eve,
an eyeball in the sand,
the dogs, the dogs, running in this
room now,
eight of them,
nine of them,
many of them,
coming closer and closer,
I watch them,
I wait,
old in my slippers,
something cutting through me,
the dark night humming and
no laughter,
no laughter
ever
again.