Joseph Farley

Everything matters when nothing matters.
The way the dust falls in the light.
How a cat stalks a spider.
The scrape of steel wool
against an iron frying pan.

It all matters.
It all matters so much
because nothing matters.

It all stopped mattering.
Now the sight and sound
of all that continues
to go on and be
oblivious
to the fact that nothing matters,
eats at your gizzard,
tears at your lungs.

You can’t breathe.
You can’t think.
You can’t watch.
You can’t listen.

All you can do
is sulk in your chair,
pull at a beer
and pretend the TV
talking to you
is the one you miss.

I try to bleed a little bit each day.
Not a lot, just a little.
A nip here, a cut there.
No big puddles on the floor.

Shaving is usually enough
to make the sacrifice,
feed the dark gods,
keep them hungry
but satisfied enough
to let me get through the day.

The small loss
may bring the sunrise
that lights up my room
and the garden outside,
keep things in balance,

and send the demons
to the next house over
until skin heals
and whiskers grow again.

The wife sleeps. She gets up at 4 AM.
It’s 9 PM and I feel guilty for being up.
I try not to make noise, just scratches on paper.

All these words are toned down
so as not to wake an early riser.
Any excitement in them
is of the quiet kind,

what you find when fishing,
or driving a country road
just to see where it goes,

or turning a page in a book
with all that thunder and gunfire
locked down into sentences,
so only you can hear it.

The piano is afraid of the cello.
It does not know why but it is.

The drums exist in their own world.
The horns, close by, waiver in loyalty,

longing for the violins and violas,
but knowing the brass section is exiled

to a land of greater noise.

The conductor sees all,
but ignores as much as possible

such discord in practice and concert.

It is her job to make all rise above
the petty squabbles,

insecurities, rivalries, foolishness
of so many instruments

assembled for a purpose,
greater than their own,

and lead them, as best she can,
in finding a harmony

greater than the sound
of so many individuals

so near to each other’s throats.

In the mud and murk
Trout hide well
Along with turtles
And tadpoles.

A body however
Would be easier
To find
Unless chopped small.

A creek yay deep
Is better for concealing
The small and living
Than the big and dead.

Still, people try.
The water looks deeper
Than it is
And strangers
Who pull up in cars
With loaded trunks

Don’t realize
How many hooks
Probe the dark green
Of a summer day.

You look once
and see magic.

You look again
and see nothing at all.

That’s the way it goes kids.
Miracles are all in the timing.

Get it wrong
and it’s just another game of cards.

in the year of second sight
all looked back and not ahead
so they missed the chance
to fool the future
and were forced to suffer again
a past not worth repeating.

You will deny
knowing me,

and I will deny
knowing you,
and all will deny
where they were,

and what they said
and did,

chastened by the fires
that still burn.

At the end of this day
another begins.

The sun burning through your window
replaces the moon.

What is night with eyes closed?
Forget the darkness.

You are here and all is good.
The sky, the grass, the stones

exist for your viewing pleasure.
Ignore temptation

to listen to the devil
reminding this will all end,

and may have already,
since you’ve been trying so hard

not to notice.

It waits
it lingers
it need not hide
but bides its time
evil knows
there will always be
a next time
another chance
to make mayhem
cause pain
and destroy
all that we
poor ants that we are
have assembled
out of sand