Friday, December 15, 2017

EXCHANGE

It used to be—
only the future
sounded like "perhaps."

Now, so does the past.

You think—if I could just sleep,
time's trickle might
come and wash it all away

like meltwater
running off and seeping
into undiscovered
underground streams.

Not that anything
which is really true
can ever be lost. You think—

even as I speak,
rivulets
are joining veiny rivers,

all plunging toward the vast ocean.

Not that the ocean
is really
boundless, of course. You think—

but there really is
peace
and quiet at the bottom.

Thursday, December 14, 2017

MACHO HAIKU

The cold stoic wind

moaning—tells only part of

how it really feels.



Wednesday, December 13, 2017

DISSOLUTION

Look—how the pathos
of the living world gets
anesthetized by stony winter.

Your sorrow
cut deep, felt intense—but
in the end, like a

sweet scent carried on the tender air,

it vanishes.
It consisted of no particles
you could point to. It was, quite possibly

never even really there.

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

KILLING ONE BIRD WITH NO STONES

Intercourse—a word like this
fits nicer,

permits a more comfortable, every-day
sort of constriction.

The veneration
of all of those books on the shelves,

the projection of another you
who reads them;

then,
playing chess against yourself,

and folding more clothes
than the both of you own—

gradually,
something is being torn down;

a license revoked,
a perspective,

exploded.
One learns, somehow, to throw

less than one
holds.

Monday, December 11, 2017

SPLITTING HAIRS

Piercingly obsidian
and fatal,

but dull
and unimpressive—

the mind,
is surely not a diamond;

it isn't even
a jagged bolt of coal.

It works more
like a livid old nail,

hammering
away at

the somber
idea that—

nobody's perfect;
but some must be

pretty damn
exact.

Saturday, December 9, 2017

EKPHRASIS HITS A WALL

A precious
but a
treacherous lie—

the sky-
blue ocean,

honeycombed salt-white,

the interposing
reef of
coral sky—

O'Keeffe horizons
like those

don't actually stop.

Friday, December 8, 2017

SKEPTIC

A fragile winter sky—
the kind which is
everywhere

and nowhere
at once—spare,
polar blue,

and fissured
through
by high contrails—

might well
crack and
unburden itself

any minute—
depending on
whether certain words

whispered down here—
are scalpels 
or stitches.