Thursday, February 22, 2018

HOUR GLASS

Figure it—all thought
and everyone,
adrift and slipping

inside this sloped
and beguiling container;
a thing,
an object in the actual world

which holds
and measures out an abstraction—
a sense
quite apart from it.

Picture it—apprehension
with a certain pace
and a definite
direction.

Patience (quintessence
of dust, province of actors)
grows headless;

it has no face,
is becoming the slightest,
the emptiest,
the least recognizable faculty
on earth.

A patient, meanwhile—
is still one
who suffers.

Wednesday, February 21, 2018

WILL

I.

There's just
no living

in this
present tense. I am

of the earth,
and of the earth with the breath

of its silty
wind, I'll sing,

each passing second proving—
reality was

but an art-
ful delusion.


II.

Timelessness.
Dreamless
sleep. Non-
arrival. Boredom.

—these lapses

you cannot have;
I'm taking them
with me.


III.

Bury me—
in any body

of water

which hasn't
already—

got a name.

Tuesday, February 20, 2018

GEOLOGIC

As time turns
uncountable, plates
pull apart. We
are now living

on opposite shores.
I no longer
see you,

but I still see
your light, still make
out its red-
shifting; so I

know, when it's
dark—you're right
there.

Monday, February 19, 2018

MISSING WORDS FROM "STORMY WEATHER"

When
all you can think is

even the rain
is trying to rain—

stormy weather.

When
dead relatives of yours
keep popping up on Facebook,

portend the disconcerting sense
that, somewhere
far off

against your
will, you're
being prayed for—

stormy weather.

Black and white, moving
picture: someone

whom you never loved,
were never born to—

in the future—
they're a spinster.

Emotional fermata, E minor trill—
keeps raining all the time.

All the time.

Swell.

Forever.

Friday, February 16, 2018

ECCLESIASTIC

Look—even
the hale sacred
sun goes a little

pale sometimes—
appears to tumble

backwards—
drowses late
and far away

in silver
blankets of clouds.

Even if it's working—
somehow
don't waste

your whole life—
working.

Thursday, February 15, 2018

MORAL WITHOUT FABLE

True Love doesn't try
to do too much.
True love knows life's too short for that;
it's never trying be clever.

True Love never says never.
It has no problem rhyming
"ever" with "ever." Over and
over—it does that sort of thing all the time.

And True Love isn't just patient and kind;
True Love is a goddamn sucker
and an enabler; it'll wait in parking lots
and dark kitchens forever.

Even if it saw something,
True Love would never say anything.
It knows better. True Love is
too cool—it's all-like: "whatever."

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

FEBRUARY 14

Afternoon sky
everyplace now—pink smoke,
not black;

me asleep
anyhow—things
looking up.