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.

Thursday, December 7, 2017

VAMPIRE COUGH

The results
are in. But
the conclusion is

awkward.
Three hundred
million people

can't be wrong—
guess we're all going
to live forever.

The catch is,
forever—doesn't mean 
what it used to

anymore.
The only appreciable
definition

of eternity
left in an overstuffed
vestibule

like this is—just one
second longer
than the poor

sucker
we got stuck
standing next to.

Wednesday, December 6, 2017

COME ON-A MY HOUSE (AFTER ROSEMARY CLOONEY)

Ten forty five, ten
forty seven, ten fifty—
the blond singer

sleeps fitfully.
Part-victim
part-perpetrator—

she feels
run-over
but guilty.

People say:
she doesn't actually
have a job, which must be

why she's pretty
sure she's
never been on vacation, either.

Waking up wishing
you were as dull
and dry as everyone else

must be the worst
feeling.
When you're this

talented and pretty,
the world is so
slick, round, and shiny

that you can't
get a grip.
nothing is discrete, no knob

ever clicks.
This must why,
it's a relief when

once in a while,
ordinary questions
yield ordinary answers.

What time is it right now?
Ten fifty five.
I mean—

Ten after eleven.
Close enough
for jazz.

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

MISTER NARRATOR

Sometimes, there's no structure,
no storyboard,
no reason.

All we're left with
are characters.
One resembles Bob Dylan—

Pumiced by bitter dusty
wind,
eviscerated

by gravity,
and left for dead somewhere
outside Graceland.

He'd give everything
to have made it there.

He'd give everything
for a mouthful or two
of clear, lubricating water

so he could
speak again
and tell you his story.

But again—it doesn't
make sense; the explanation
isn't satisfying.

It isn't even
that
the vandals took the handle;

the pump
just doesn't work any-
more;

it's old. And it's
broken.

Monday, December 4, 2017

HAUNTED

These nights, I'm not afraid 
of feeling alone

so much as of—alienation 
feeling 
utterly intimate,

thick
and familiar.
Often, I 

feel in by bones—
this is not the same wind,
but it is

the same kind;
like a notorious melody 
played on two very 

different evolutions
of one instrument.

Friday, December 1, 2017

LUDDITE LOOP

Too bad—how
God keeps getting trapped
inside his own creation;

his lofty moods,
his purest, most
ethereal ideas—pulled back

slowly but surely
to the dirt,

weighed down
by his own invented
animal drag.

Slowly but surely, that
which is clever
seeks divorce

from what's kind.
Worship becomes desire

for distraction.
So now, he stabs—
with intent

to wound and
scar the planet, then

harness its cries
to power the latest
electronic devices.