Friday, February 14, 2025

MY UNFUNNY VALENTINE

I've heard that,
like me,
every piece within you

has ridden the vim
of an interstellar burst—

but the whole 
of us now 

sooner marvels 
at this: 

that every blush 
recedes; 

all enthusiasms 
dim.

*

Don't blame 
Narcissus 

for what 
narcosis 
did.

*

All love exists 
in a bittersweet stasis—or else

swarms 
with the ghosts 

of our pathos 
and ignorance. 
 
Something left 
undone will breech 

the surface 
all at once,

the way an old taste might 
return to us unbidden. 

The shapes 
our mouths make 

in the dark
when we kiss 

can only be 
the inverse 

of the thing 
that we're missing.


Thursday, February 13, 2025

GONE CROOKED

At the end
of the line, there aren't 
any lines. 

On the borders 
of a picture, no one's 
eye is fixed.

At the edge 
of every squiggled   
demarcation on the map,

such this- or that-ness
does not exist,

and the once wild, 
romantic, and 
obdurate frontier, 

as if curdled by fear
of its own 
sudden fixity, 

will wilt—
will double back

like it's seeking 
lost comfort 
in some less conspicuous past

like the hooked-
under tail 

of some little 
scaredy cat.


Wednesday, February 12, 2025

TROJAN HORSE

Don't look now;
the attention 
could destroy us.

From all the open tabs 
of all the incognito windows,
the chorus 

of experts chirrups 
"righteous indignance"—

or, put another way: 
paranoia's 
poker face. 

*

Deep inside its 
grand disguise, 

the Particular 
grows resentful 

of having to shoulder 
the burden 
of the Whole. 

*

Insisting on insistence, 
everyone 

believes me. 
My voice 
is the storm 

of white noise 
where I hide. 

Yes of course, reader,
these are empty words—
how else 

do you expect me 
to smuggle my 
self inside? 


Tuesday, February 11, 2025

HOLDING MIRRORS UP TO MIRRORS

What a pleasure it is 
to call things 
by their names. 

Serious, 
for instance, 

grandly summarizes 
the game that we play 

when we try to hide 
the frivolous 

truth 
about beauty. 


Speaking of beauty, 
it has taken me 
forever 

to admit 
I don't want 
you to see me this way—

I mean 
to say: with half 

a compassionate mind 
to swipe right 

on every hapless princess 
to blundered into 
the obvious trap 

and fell into a coma 
on her birthday.

*

And speaking of truth, 
how are we 
defining that? 

Exaggerated sense 
of having all the facts? 

Overwhelming preponderance 
of evidence presented? 

Presented by whom? 
To whom? 
In what context? 

And in which 
of this universe's 
infinite rooms?


Monday, February 10, 2025

MULTIPLICITY

Sun-silhouetted 
sparrows crowd a wire, 

as if 
in syndication—

unassailable 
duplicates 

(neither whole 
nor parts), 

their indifference 
to falling 

rivals only 
that to flying. 

Perhaps such anonymous 
agglomeration 

is far and away 
the best way to prevail?

Perhaps you and I
have been upside down 

all this time 
about dying.


Friday, February 7, 2025

SOMETHING KIND OF LIKE THAT

Without much 
intention, old crows 
swoop in 

on the bracing 
wind to colonize 
a sycamore's dead branches—

but in just the right 
shadow at the denouement 
of day,

it seems reasonable to say 
that together, 
they resemble

those whorls of black 
in the final line which 
closes out an emblem poem—

coming 
out of seeming 
nowhere

to confound our fear 
with the thrill 
of the unknown. 


Thursday, February 6, 2025

NUCLEAR OPTIONS

As matter is mostly 
an emptiness 
in space, 

so I 
am mostly an emptiness 
in feeling—

and no, the two 
are not the same thing, 

as that feeling 
is what keeps me from 

demolishing 
the world.

*

Picture 
your discretion  

getting massacred 
by gestures: 

god begets 
light 

begets 
reliance—or  

suspicion.

*

Our lookalikes 
are all defective, 

but 
don't say that out loud.

Would you settle instead
for a happiness 

contingent?
Or vicarious? 

Or how about 
a "later" 
encircling your "now" 

with all the exactness 
of an electron cloud?