Tuesday, November 19, 2019


contrary to popular belief,
the poets
are not so quiet;

the poets
are the loudmouth
stand-up comedians—

doing such necessarily
frowzy impressions

of the unspeakably majestic
that they sometimes
bear repeating:

when the wind's 
high, those songbirds 
are all-like—

and the flowers 
have those looks on their 
faces where they're just—

and the shape 
and the color 
and the aspect 

of the water 
were never really
the same after that...

Of course,
in the heat
of the moment

no one is laughing;
the audience is barely listening.

And so the poets, those
rare idiots, feel
all the more

to just say what they're thinking.

Monday, November 18, 2019


We have it
on good, albeit
tacit authority;

we can taste it
in the fear
drizzled lust

on the tips
of our tongues—
a little blot

must rightwise come
to the end
of every sentence.

this limit
is a stunt

which none
are in a hurry
to rehearse, yet

listen to all of us—
just dying
to practice.

Saturday, November 16, 2019


Just think of all the things in this
life there aren't words for—

the chocolate smell of brewed coffee
being different from its bitter taste

or the lonesome color of every
wet maple leaf mixed together

after being compressed beneath
the eager feet of trick-or-treaters

and pulped by grudging commuters
two weeks or so into November

when you can hear them start to
mutter back and forth on the platform

so much for a good long autumn 
because they can't find it

in their stony hearts to say
here comes another hard winter.

Friday, November 15, 2019


by photon,

light infiltrates everything.

It doesn't take,
it finds

the average.

It doesn't
discover, it

defines the boundaries:

in the shell;

on earth as it is in heaven.

But then,
such invisible hunger—

an internal space

that's uninterruptible—
what in the

hell could this mean?

Thursday, November 14, 2019


A writer is
one who revises

whatever he or she
is waiting for.

Slow and
with great care

by letter

coffee and breakfast turn
carefree and steadfast

true loves
become tea leaves

now that is

a tough one.
Some hint at

dying flowers
and leave it there.

Many others
have simply written

to say they're
still working on the problem.

Wednesday, November 13, 2019


Over the years
I have churned
out so many poems

I can't recall how
any of them go. Urgent
as they were

most were about
girls I'm sure now
i'd rather not remember

engendered by metaphors
that didn't compare much
with the world of sense

set in locations I'll likely
never see again.
Yet—I'm not sorry.

I won't be held responsible
for emotions whose postcards
I no longer want

for mutt feelings I've let out
at the curb on the street
or regrettable versions

of persons now-retired.
All that amnesty I must
hold on reserve

for the reason itself
which I can't afford
yet to forget—

and for the one person
who in the interim is
still required.

Tuesday, November 12, 2019


O nameless untamable
joy of bright morning—
unpopulated white light

wasting inexhaustible time
playing in the mazes
of silent faceless ice—

please excuse humanity's
abominably late
entrances, they

cannot help it; please
break them off a piece
of your eagerness

to mind not a bit
of scarcity or lack.
When they wake

they inevitably
wake feeling dark
blue and starving.