Through These Terrible Midnights

Goddamn this world.

Goddamn all these people
walking around, trying to
destroy each other.

Goddamn all the things
people think they need
& goddamn all the things
people do to get them.

Goddamn our inventions,
goddamn our ideas,
our man-made borders,
our false gods, &
our so-called prophets.

Goddamn all the things
we use to separate ourselves
from one another
& if this is the world that
you agree with,
the world you want,
then take it, take all of it,
because, what use are you,
really, if you can’t see that
the only reason we are here,
the only things we were
wrought to create are
love & art
& only as a means to
help ourselves or help each other
through these terrible midnights.

And if you aren’t doing that,
or at least trying to do that,
well, goddamn you too,
take this silly, stupid world
& leave me alone
with some bread, some wine,
maybe some decent cheese,
leave me with my little poems,
& my little paintings.
I want no part
in this
I am

Of Freedom, The Pursuit Of Happiness,
& Of The American Dream–
           These, The Fetid Bones;
           This, The Sinister Design;
           These, The Ugly Truths;
           & This, What They Actually Want…

To start you off in the hole,
then somehow convince you to
buy what you don’t need,
spend what you don’t have,
want more than you can ever get,
& watch you die before you can
dig out from under it.


Simply The Impermanence Of Things

I try not to read
too many newspapers
or let too many things
get me down,
I try to remember
that things have
always been hard,
always been bad,
except sometimes
when they aren’t.

I try not to listen to
too many people
who say things like
“just choose to be happy”
which is a cruel thing
to say to someone
who doesn’t feel like
they chose any of this.

I try to remember
the mashed-up bullets
in the dunes off Normandy &
that man has drawn & redrawn
the borders, the lines, the rules,
has vaulted killers & goons into icons
raised statues to them only to
tear them back down later.

I try to remember that
everything crumbles,
everything fails,
simply the impermanence of things,
buildings; gods; ideals;
all built up, torn down, rebuilt,
only more wars & time
to mark the passing,
wars  as common as
a crow, a bursting seed, or a harvest
& time like hours lost to snowfall
beneath slate-grey clouds.

I try to trust in
my own heart,
my own instincts,
try to do the things
that feel important to me,
& try not to get too
distracted by all the rest,
not because I am right or wrong,
but because it feels important.

it even works,
I even
pull it


With But A Few Quiet Tears
To Solemnly Usher Them
Onward, Forward, Everward,
Until The Sun Is No More…

Slam it shut & watch
as the sparrows burst forth
from the tangles of a dying honeysuckle–

The crunch of gravel underfoot reminds us
as we march head-held-high
into the blue sky days of it–

Nothing can last, there is no way to outrun it,
& tragedy, like just about everything else,
belongs to the rich, belongs to the mighty,
belongs to the right now famous, & powerful–

when one of them kicks off
there’s unabashed weeping
in the filthy grey streets,
enormous outpourings of
fanfare & support,
a grandiose parade,
a spectacle,
a lavish undertaking.

But people I know
die a little everyday
with but a few quiet tears
to solemnly usher them
onward, forward, everward,
until the sun is no more.
No one saymuch, does much,
mostly we’re just left to it,
to the simple, tedious going on of it,
we’re left to sort it out what we can
with the help of a few others
that knew, that cared.

Yes, nothing about how you or I die
will appear in election year political ads,
or a goddamned Ford truck commercial,
we won’t embody anything, personify anything,
there will be no narrative thread, no story of us,
hell, I’m not even sure it’ll really mean anything,
at the ashen & bony conclusion,
but living, truly living, & all that will cost you,
is far more tenuous than
far more hazardous,
more dangerous, &
…but so much more necessary.

& sure, it’s ridiculous,
maybe even unfair,
that so much
unheralded & unrecognized
death slips past…

…but still it’s
the best


One Response to “HOSHO MCCREESH”

  1. Uncanny how McCreesh takes what I’m thinking and makes beautiful poetry out of it.

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