RATIONALE

Lately, I am fine 

with being provoked  

into a song—

solitary as a mollusk, 

I might require 

a disturbance; 

I long, perhaps, 

for intrusion—

something wrong, 

over which 

merely palliative 

sentiments may swarm 

 

and accrete 

their invaluable nacre 

of brilliance—

some pretty pearl 

of lyric that I never 

meant to form. 

 

RELIANCE

For some things, 

a middle

may not exist.

The center 

of a universe 

cannot be measured; 

the heart of a process 

has a process 

for a heart, 

and no matter how hard 

you click "zoom in" 

and "enhance,"

all you see are 

smaller 

and smaller 

strands of self-

similar actions.

Therefore, 

rather than declare 

with any kind 

of certainty, 

I'd much rather 

speculate often

and wildly 

that the farther out 

from innocence I seem 

to spin, 

the more I must

give in to some 

tiny grain of mystery—

some talisman 

of confidence 

bounded by its absence, 

like the gaps

between lips in 

true love's first kiss—

my exact but 

mysterious 

center of mass, 

wherever that

is, or whoever 

it was.

IMMOLATION

The reason 

it's always 

so scarce 

and at a premium 

is that Truth (with 

a capital T) 

always hits 

like this: 

first, there's 

a burst—a young 

spark 

of fascination—

followed by 

the pubescent flair 

of self-

righteous ardor

and its blush

of fascination—

after which, 

the giddy flame 

of advancement starts 

to wildly dance,

and then spread,

and ignite,

incinerate,

and vaporize 

not only 

Itself, but the whole 

observation deck 

too badly 

for the singed 

and now-

traumatized victim

to willingly 

(or otherwise)

identify. 

POTENTIALITY

There is no reason 

to worry, I am told—

no need 

to feel shame 

or guilt after all, since

every time we 

bulldoze over 

something that was beautiful, 

we know 

that something useful 

is bound to be created—

a need in the abstract 

is concretely filled. 

And honestly, 

it's a sentiment with which

I'm prone to resonate, 

as I've known

the same premise to be true 

in reverse:

I have grieved 

for every second 

which I haven't spent 

in daydreams,

since I've sensed 

that something 

voiceless 

but equally 

magnificent 

has probably just been 

staunched and stripped 

of every bit of lifeblood, 

flattened and paved-

over—too jovially  

killed. 

TO REVERIE

All our lives, we're 

commanded: 

listen 

well, read 

close, and pay 

attention;

recitation 

of creeds and 

ringing 

of bells is 

tantamount 

to consecration. 

But then, 

one day, 

we may slump 

in the pew—

and, nodding-

off, dream 

our revelation:

that through the raw 

ecstasy 

of awe 

and of terror 

may sluice 

rarer knowledge 

of the vulgar

and the workaday; 

through gaps 

in the soothing, 

child-like echolalia 

of the mass, 

may pour forth 

both the infinite river 

and infinitesimal 

vessel of salvation.

Now, 

whether the next 

great abyss 

we fall into

be our hell 

or our heaven—

who really cares? 

As long as it 

takes us somewhere 

new.

MATURITY

In the weakening 

light, as summer turns 

to autumn, 

it gets harder 

to find what is right—

what is good. 

Thankfully, from each 

slight edge, in

towards the heart, 

all that is pure 

and alive starts 

to blur

and flush bright 

with blushes of well-

deserved death

 

to make it 

more perfectly 

well understood.

DECLENSION

What in the world 

are these black, 

grotesque creatures—

these odd gargoyle 

statues we're all 

turning into? 

Which ashen, 

apocalypse-

raided town square 

(and from where) 

do we slouch toward? 

After birth, 

every woman 

and man seems 

to fade, 

little by

little, to some 

rumpled up object,

or clubfooted 

symbol, or hoarse-

whispered proverb.

Unlike what we'd 

heard, things do not

fall apart; 

instead, they just 

harden, contract, 

and conserve—until 

all our lives 

are worth is their lines, 

curves, and serifs,

and everyone 

on Earth who has ever 

loved and laughed—

from Abraham 

and Sarah, down to 

Peaches and Herb—

sooner or later—

gets collapsed  

into a word.