Monday, March 18, 2019

MOTION CARRIED

Hands plunged
deep in the silver kitchen
sink again, cold

water touches them
and flows, and I think,
or really, don't—

this is all completely
made of holes;

weekends,
subsisting by kind permission
of a temporary
dearth of original ideas—most

weekdays, nesting
in those empty spaces
in the middle of certain vowels
where a certain wind blows

nothing but the chunk
of wind that had just a moment ago
come blowing,

nothing but its own
hollow cartoon
sound of wind-blowing,

nothing but—every suspicion
of its own lack of essence
out of existence.

Saturday, March 16, 2019

INDECIPHERABLE CAUSE

What in this world
have I ever truly loved?

A sunrise
Sunday morning

pancake
batter smell

the plagal
cadence of folk

mass songs
or the lone

crow's call? So
I've heard—the blackbird 

is involved 
in what I know,

but I don't
have the smallest

snowball's
chance in

hell
of knowing—what

she believes
at all.

Friday, March 15, 2019

KING OF THE CASTLE

There's a storm in the forecast.
There are ideas, and then
there are things. My sadness says—
I am not concerned; I am contented 
looking at old postcard photographs 
of lilacs on Mackinac Island. 

There's a storm on the way.
The windowpane is foggy and quivering
like a kid's lower lip. My lack of belief
regards the horizon and
states flatly—I am not mad, I am
simply unwilling to talk about it.

There's a storm raging outside.
Buckets of rain gush down.
My incredulity is staring
out the window, slack-jawed
at this spontaneous abandon
of prudence and caution.

After a while, my confusion
finally asserts itself
and professes its
now-incontestable feeling
that better place 
than this—must exist.

Thursday, March 14, 2019

LATE-BLOOMING GALAXY

Scientists say—
the middle of something

can't really be measured;
the heart of a process

has a process at its heart,
and you can always

keep zooming in, perpetually
chop it apart

and find smaller pieces.
Which is why,

instead of declaring,
I've always been fine

with just guessing—
that the farther

and farther
out I'd go spinning,

the more dependent I'd grow
on that tiny grain of sand

which lent the pearl
its mystery, that invisible

talisman of confidence
which doesn't exist,

that hole between the lips
of an old first kiss:

my exact center
of mass—

wherever it was
or is.

Wednesday, March 13, 2019

DREAM OF AN AFTERNOON

That lakeside park smell—
of jogger sweat
and hot dogs sailing

mildly on the mossy air;
we stop for lunch—
or maybe

just umbrella
stand tea somewhere
verdant in between

the strange alabaster of
pillared museums.
For a beat or two,

we each stop talking,
having balanced
our hollow bodies

so precisely on that
inadequate sliver
of sunbeam straddling

our over-examined
past—and
insensible future.

Tuesday, March 12, 2019

PAGEANT

Nothing like
a delicate
white cup of coffee—
black as the morning
sky is cerulean,
with steam arabesque-ing
ladders to heaven
above the attendant
and mortally-
still kitchen table—
to make you feel
that you might
(somehow, someday,
in a whole other kitchen,
painted completely
different
from this one)
still fall in love
with the life
you have left.

Monday, March 11, 2019

PROBLEM IS

The problem is I love you
with that hunk of me which is
unfinished,

that perfect romantic steak dinner
which is perpetually
still cooking,

with a will that is always
changing and never
was mine to begin with

and lives high up
in the master bedroom of a
dwelling place that is temporary,

a shit apartment, adequate for
a scrawny underfed spirit,
a small body that doesn't physically exist;

no limbs, no tongue
with which to speak
or lick, to taste the dream of air

that floats between the words we say
and those we no longer
say to each other—and

this thing, this stinted love,
this phantom child of us,
I can only guess

must be: so holy, so miraculous
that it still exists, even though it was
never born—at least not yet.