They'll hover round the tomb

They'll hover round the tomb
long after I am a memory
trading stories of who knew me best
swap stories of this bar
that lover in the moonlight
while the best me smiles in the coffin in the corner

I plan an Irish wake

they'll trade the tales that made me to them
wondering who was closest
who knew the secrets that I told no one else
never guessing that the best parts
will be buried tomorrow

laughter will drown out the honesty
and they'll walk away
bellies full of my favorite dishes
eyes swelling with the booze I always ordered
stumbling home to write in lonely journals
that they learned more about me that night
than they did while I lived

and nowhere in those stories
are the nights I laid on my roof for hours
counting the stars of the milky way
or the secret soft lover I called Monica
who never existed in flesh
but danced across my pages
calling herself by a thousand different names
and slipped in silently
into the lovers I never held for more than a moment

there are gypsy Irish songs
I played only when no one was home
the poems saved on my hard drive
password-protected so no one would find them
it's so easy, friends, to read them:
just know where is home to me
and they'll open themselves to you

I loved women who will never know,
wanted to be boys who will count the days onward
never knowing that they were envied

the poems I wish I had written and
my secret sins will claw at the earth
begging for freedom if only someone would search beneath the surface

but those who venture close
will understand the magic tricks I played:
everyone thinks they know you
if you split a pitcher
and make the conversation revolve around them

I've learned the tricks of journalists
that I wish I could have elucidated earlier
most writers use their tales to show who they are
I use mine to hide me
behind those visages
that others know so well
the poet, the musician, the writer, the painter
my fascination with them
with what they create
hides my inner drives to do what I have done

and, of course, being the sad poet I am
I spit the hidden verses to reveal in bit and parts
what I wanted to say
when the moment was right
when the last girl was in my arms
when all the mathematics aligned
to find that equation that equaled me
but no one does math anymore
they merely wait for the blog entry
the poem, the song, the novel, the drunken pronouncement
to clarify their suspicions

I play harder to get
to know what hides beneath,
beat me in game of chess,
with my honesty on the line
catch me alone one night at home
with roommates gone
the dog asleep on the sofa
the computer off and all the electronics shut down
listen to that which makes me laugh aloud
read the lines that I reread a thousand times on weekends
watch my favorites movies run raw with wear

find the poems I have hidden places
where no one will find them in my lifetime
speak to the women I have passionately followed for years
and I'll be there hidden between the lines

playing this role
wherein all the players know my name
stop me in grocery stores
and chat about their day
what they want from me
or what they need me to do
they hold an image encapsulated by my name
that I often laugh at in early mornings
when I stand naked before taking a shower

we all hold our friends and foes
in the places that make sense most
puzzle pieces played on the board
to win the game
never knowing if our prize
is a coup d'état waiting for the moment to strike

to know a person is simple:
what would they die for
what would they kill for
what do they live for ..
and these are never the same

so for know
shout my name as I spit verses on stage
claim to know me on the street
or in late night bars
relate our mutual occupations of space
as stories to friends
read my writings and delve deep
pose with me for pictures for those who couldn't be there
slip between my sheets to hold me in the night
and when I pass
tell these stories to the assembled crowd
but know what foolishness you speak

because those who know this poet
will gather later
long after my corpse is resting
and laugh at my silly things
how she could make me wait with a whisper
how I cried to "Walking in Memphis"
the draw of a pretty girl anywhere
late night Irish drinking ballads
how a good story could captivate me
joy in friends' happinesses
unspoken affection for family
finding the girl I always sought
and how only those who knew me
sans façade, sans image, sans name
would have read a poem like this one