for gary d.

old friend you do not write me
you do not show me your books, anymore
Jim is not here to share my stroh's
Ricardo has gone to Sterling for two weeks
but he did not tell me last Thursday when we talked.
Gary went to Chicago today; he made his apologies
for the retreat. He is lying to himself
about Anita. But it is an old lie that
we all survive.
My child has gone to Oregon with my ex-wife,
the marxist, and I have not heard from him
in the last month.
I do not write Janne, for reasons she refuses
to admit; and of course, she does not write me.
Ross suffers in his understanding
but has made a place and will live nowhere else.
That it cannot include us is only normal.
This list goes on, as you know. But it has no actual
point. It is only to say how dark this room
has become. No one answers my letters, but
I will not threaten suicide to evoke a response.
Instead I spend the days questioning myself,
wondering what are the errors.
Knowing this is only a normal human concern.
Old friend, you do not write me.
But this is not asking you to.
I am no longer surprised by the world, just confused.
These words are splits of wood on the fire,
creating light and heat, just as if you were
actually here.


A poem from the late 70s, speaking to my friend Gary Davidson, after the disillusion of the first Scarritt group. I needed response in those days and sought it, extravagantly. It's a good thing I got over that because there is less and less response to my words as I age. Of course, I'm not as much fun, nor as sexy as I was in those days (I'm sorry Paige, but it is the truth.)