Thursday, April 28, 2016

MINISTRY OF THE INTERIOR

If there's a god,
it should

be like—
an administrative building,

huge and smooth,
with booming

marble and reassuring
wrought iron—that we

can enter
from outside, and walk

around in-
side of, not only during certain

yellow hours,
but

whenever
we feel like it—totally alone,

no crowds,
no lines or ropes or numbers

being taken, without an
appointment

or any reservations—
aimless,

but still,
every

minute that we're in there,
getting tons

of indisputably
inane business done.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

DARK MATTER

There—
in those dis-
orienting 

little hot 
sun-
white energy blips 

between the quick 
downward 

swishes of eye 
lids

and the equally reflexive 
dissolution 
and 

unconscious 
denial of that

glimpse of 
absolute black—

invisibly 
pushing back 
against 

each 
stubbornly fixed 
last

probable cause
and its 

correspondingly 
capricious
proximate effect—

stuck,
like thick 
eye 

gunk, between 
the end 
of each list-

less and fresh
beautiful daydream

and the subsequent slow 
and hate-
fully mute 

recompilation 
of stale 
mental to-do lists;

there—smug 
in their insidiously 

legal 
universal perpetuity,

fat with the
pride over
their illimitable 

dominion, 
and brazenly 
filling—

to the point 
of ultimate-
ly defining—

the allowable volume
of each
of these

possible places—
there

and forever!
shall sit—
the incredulous

and the 
very last 

as-yet 
unexplained

mysteries left
in all 
modern physics:

the irreducible 
constant,

the little 
trouble we 

laypeople call—our 
expectations.

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

OBSCURA

The roving 
Lake Michigan 

ghosts
of lupine fog—

climbing 
up and

garishly
chewing—the tops

off West 
Loop parking 
garage towers—

make the whole
landscape 

of work 
look—not only

ugly—but 
darkly
self-

conscious about it—
its vertical walls,
like slender

shoulders 
under obliterated 

faces,
tensed
and raised, 

as if vague-
ly wincing
away in their loam

coats of beige-
gray, with the 
huge stress 

of being 
so durably

and deliberately 
constructed—
but then left

to stand there
so unprotected—
and each

turning vague 
with the noxious 
pollution 

of mercurial
weather's dumb 
disinclinations, while still

remaining 
so fixedly—
manmade.

Monday, April 25, 2016

FRAILTY AT NINE O'CLOCK

Nothing particularly strange
or significant

about—
another demolished

three-
quarter remnant

of waxpapery robin's
egg, coaxed

by the
gray morning

wind—into a desiccated
whisper, bobbling now

ignorantly back
and forth across

the green and un-
even wood

planks to the
left of our outside front doorstep.

And yet,
we both stop

on our way
out, to marvel—

I, just
dumb at the sight

of what
seems to me like

possibly either—a sign of new life's
gutsy daring,

or else, it's unfair-
ly high

margin of certain
disaster;

and Lucy,
at the end of her

tether, sniffing
it and

barking a
little, threatened—as a mother

by the apparent
hollowness of the sound.

Thursday, April 21, 2016

REAL MIRACLES

You've just about
had it,

now. You can't
stomach any 

more truth. Only working
methods

from here 
on out.

They should be boring. 
Like—an egg 

begetting—private,
hot, and yellow 

breakfast—instead of 
some hapless

barnyard thing, all carbuncles,
knots, and hard 

muddy britches and whatnot.
And the simple 

taste,
and the feel—of things 

real to you,
intimate to your tongue. Civilized 

things;
hardy, but not 

riveting—the cutting warmth
of the toasted 

staff of life in your 
mouth, for instance, when it's 

thick, so it
sops 

and yields, with the melancholy 
pudge of that dull 

yolk—because, after 
all, bread too

is nothing—
without the leavening.

Wednesday, April 20, 2016

POCKET ENLIGHTENMENT

I am nothing
if not

deferential—
God

is a She.
So

properly,
it's

She—
who does not exist.



Monday, April 18, 2016

EATING AWAY

Twelve straight years
of strict

training, and he 
still never thinks

twice about 
skipping it 

because it's nice 
out or remotely

considers
attending when it's 

gloomy; nor does he
feel particular-

ly 
lucky under 

the vast, free
wheeling-but-

functional-
looking

networked capillaries 
of pale stars 

(which he 
still sees 

whenever he 
accidentally 

strays beyond
the hedonistic

gaze of the
city) or

even the least
bit chilly

and dim-
witted 

in the cool 
shards of light-

punctured 
darkness underneath

an apple 
tree. But—curiously,

each time that he 
walks past

an outdoor table 
which is empty—he still finds

that he
must actively 

suppress 
an unconscionable

urge—to produce silver
and set it 

for two 
people—and just

sit there 
for a good forty-

five minutes 
or so,

even though 
he assumes—both

that nobody
is coming

and that, if someone ever
did, he'd be

far too spooked—to 
consume anything.

Friday, April 15, 2016

NOW AND AT THE HOUR

The little belly
ache of April

sun is
the only reality 

show
on earth today—

it's great
reveal, more a gradual

unlearning.
Like another famous 

young mother
of desire, slow

but tender,
careful but

fierce-
ly, its mission is

to loom
and coax,

to wax
and wait, while its

target demo-
graphic below,

slowly reconceives
its own

daffiness—
for joy. But for now,

the people are all still 
too white 

with it—too deliberate.
Or else,

too green. For instance,
some of them will try

to tape this 
for later.

And though they
are moved,

nobody thinks—to bow
or to duck.

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

TYPE B

This
is it.

Left alone—you cannot help
but transform.
Soon,

you'll be a
secret

superhero again.

You'll
invert.

And everything
else in the world
will still

be full-color, but you—you'll finally
feel black

and white
again. Your chest

cavity will cave-
in a little,

and cool,

and its
throbbing will slow,

even
as your brain
swells,

and begins twitching
and switching
between gears—pretty rapidly

clicking and pinging and shuffling

between
its equally prized
and reviled collection

of rumpled paper-
thin thoughts,
running fact-

checks,
taking measurements
for cross-
comparison, examining

photographs
and drawing meticulous
 little diagrams on
each of them

featuring all the best-
and worse-
case scenarios;
like paper-mache (no,

Papier-mâché), it'll then start
cutting and gluing
together huge
compilation lists,
and then—
carefully destroying
the now trivial
impetus for having creating them;

After all that—it'll usually
try
it's hand

at solving all the classic koans (no
problem, given

enough time, it
reasons)—before
giving up

on that,
and settling
for writing

brand new ones instead,
like—

Quick!—what is it
you
would
think about?

if—
no

body
was pressuring you to answer that question?

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

LIVE ON THE SCENE

The morning 
after, 

the debased phrase—

I am
that 
I am—still 

hangs stinging 
in the air;

a very mysterious 
prankster's latest 

devil-
may-care,

illicit 
and late-

night
graffito, no
doubt—

scrawled out 
so daring
and

intimidatingly,
here

along the entire
proud brick 
edifice 

of western civilization.

Although—
a few local residents
this reporter 

spoke
with earlier, 
(each 

of whom 
unfortunately
declined 

to be interviewed)
were nonetheless 
insistent—

in their
staunch refusal
to be provoked—let alone 

intimidated 
by—some local 
upstart  

who's so unintelligent;

and whose explanation-
less, 

but doubtless
dubious, motivations—not 
to mention 

cowardly
name!—they don't know.

Monday, April 11, 2016

THINGS GET EASIER

Overhead—in the crisp 
wind 

two quick irises
document the sight—of three 

little round 
glinting tin-
foil baubles—once bought,

once owned,
once 

given, once 
tangible—now going 

twisting,
aimless and 
totally haphazard, over 

and under one 
another—through 
the blank infinity 

of azure. And at first, 
the brain 

registers—oh, what a
tragedy! (though, at least 
they're still 

all in that 
mess together);
but then, afterwards—a mind 

just might 
kick-in 
and consider—that it's 

nice 
how it—just doesn't matter anymore,

whether they 
once bore 

notes of congratulation, 
or 

were always meant 
to be—consolatory.

Friday, April 8, 2016

SPIRALING

In a flash,
the immesurably

vast
and prodigious!

star rippled
arms of the Milky

Way galaxy—
begin

to feel
enormously

scrawny to me;

whenever I
stop—
to think

with a shudder,
of all the

dumb shit I never
have time to do.

SUNSET IS JUST AN ILLUSION

When I thought
I'd, at last

finally managed
to flag

the right
guru down,
I

breathlessly blurted—sir!
please help me,
see,

lately,
I'm afraid—
I'm burning out

from working
and working
so hard—to forget

this or that
day of my
life, which has

already passed.
His advice,

which came rather
disappointingly

quicker than I
expected,
was—kid!

just
mix things
up! from time

to time—
and instead,
try to imagine

that you're
regretting—one

that hasn't
happened yet.

Wednesday, April 6, 2016

A HIGHER POWER

You admitted 
to me—heaven might not
be real

but suggested it wasn't quite
an illusion either.
You could agree

it was
tricky and weird,
like sunset—really happening 

on some factual level,
but not how we imagine. 
Or, like a float 

in some sunblinded 
and long late-
afternoon parade—functionally empty

but resplendently 
full of its own light—
and perfect-

ly engineered 
to illuminate 
its own context.

You tried to propose—that God too
was 
at least, maybe

a constructive
pastime,
like baseball.

a life-preserving
metaphor,
like traffic signals.

A serviceable 
riddle,
like hiccups.

A convenient 
answer,
like yes-sir.

You asked—couldn't I at least 
respect
some clever marketing?

I thought 
and said—yes, 
I had a lot 

of respect
for just that 
sort of capacity;

so much,
in fact,
that there wasn't

a ton of room left—
for any 
kind of hierarchy.

Tuesday, April 5, 2016

@CHARLES_DICKENS

Once, I actually tried 
that thing you said—
keeping Christmas all the year.

Turns out—after a
while, you hardly notice the poor thing.
By February,

it gets a bit
restless inside of its
cage—in March,

things get
worse—and you start
forgetting

to feed it sometimes.
And come April, if it hasn't died
or somehow escaped yet,

you just grow—
so ashamed! and debilitated
by your own combination

of working-
class selfishness
and bourgeois neglect, that

the only humane
and remotely
remedial option left—is to put

the sick little idea
out of its misery
by sending it—right

down the toilet.

Sunday, April 3, 2016

CHEMTRAIL CONSPIRACY THEORY

April fissures
scar the azure—because

some
dead ancestor—just had

to get there—
faster.

Friday, April 1, 2016

CLOUD EIGHT

Devouring very late
breakfast—of

slimy glistening
hard
boiled chicken

eggs, he licked
his chalky

fingers, clucked
his chalky 

tongue, and once
barely

paused—just
long 

enough to exhale 
and ruminate—that

as soon as you start
to get 
enough

sleep, the only hard
facts 

become—
sex and hunger.