Monday, May 21, 2018


When it says it's late
May but the cold morning mist off
the lake is so strong

and stiff—that it engulfs
every lonesome limestone tenement
tower on the horizon,

somebody somewhere
must have done something wrong.

A lone prisoner, perhaps
a scrawny and
dismal bespectacled man

in threadbare vestments,
who's breakfasting
out there in that distant dim shade

penitently on day-
old coffee and some green
thumbnail of a banana

by a filmy and barred window
that overlooks an endless
maze of alleyways—where,

apart from the low-swooping
gunmetal gray seagulls,

the few birds his failing
ears can still hear aren't singing

spontaneous songs—but blind-
ly rehearsing the day's
designated canticle.

Friday, May 18, 2018


The bad news is
the situation
has escalated.

God himself
came down
among us—and he whispers

and walks
around town
in plainclothes now.

But don't worry; you
don't have to drop
what you're clutching

and put your filthy
red hands in
the air—any two-

bit scientist can
tell you: they're both always
already in there.

Thursday, May 17, 2018


In the damp shade
of this overgrown off-
ramp triangle, thick clots of woodchips

brace a few stubborn hostas, wild
asters, and lots
of Leinenkugel bottles.

Nobody's clapped
their hands around
this place for a while;

all the fairies
look faint
and ugly,

like paperwhite moths
in that singular over-
wrought moment before dawn:

they exist—but just
so achingly
on the edge of almost

that it hardly seems like
a secret worth telling, let alone anything

Wednesday, May 16, 2018


Go on. Say
the red tulips

melting in
the partial sun—

are not some
luscious alien

lollipops whose
days are numbered.

The reality
of the

situation then—
must be

unbearably lonely,
since there's

always only

Tuesday, May 15, 2018


That little child
curled up and
asleep inside me—
who likes
to pick all the stiff
weeds from the curbsides,
the ones with stringy yellow
and purple-ish brambly flowers,
and then
pedal like crazy
back toward his mother,
who's sauntering
with that pretty listlessness of hers
down the same big road
at a comfortable
but gratifying distance behind—
is starting
to get heavy.

Monday, May 14, 2018


Wrong, wrong, wrong—caws
the cold
wet crow, swooping

and broad-

and low across the meadow—

complex situations
might arise

due to
simple unpredictable
changes in the weather.

Motion is the only purpose;
let this swift black
arrow of action

the slipperiness
of its swift black purpose.

In the soup-
thick fog of morning, the truth

with opportunity,

looks uncouth,

the signification is mine
for the taking,

and no kinds
of food—

are any
better or worse than others.

Friday, May 11, 2018


The tapwater 
in the black Teflon 
pot on the stove 
is about to reach 
a rolling boil;

physical changes—more 
than just 
around the corner

we keep to the proper order),

certain processes under-

can't be meaningfully 

Time yet, to ponder 
the past, 
the future—while the proteins denature
and harden

(stiff kernels 
of a dozen birds that had neither).

Something is wrong. Somebody

The purpose of time, 
isn't just

so that everything 
doesn't happen all at once;

it's also to ensure that nothing 
can ever go meaning-

back to the way it was.