Wednesday, December 6, 2023


In short, it's because 
of the strong 
and weak forces

which have carried 
the light (if not 
the word) forward—

those sticky 
invisible prefixes 
to oceans; then

land bridges, city states, 
world wars, and 
gas shortages; 

and finally, the 
galaxy of dense fiber-

which has criss-
crossed the cold-
shoulder 21st century—

that I should be 
nothing but the voice 
in your mind 

who speaks to you 
as you while you read
down these lines. Yet,

for all of that 
progress, we 
still cannot talk 

about where we'll end 
up together, or how 
we're combined 

without spilling all 
the milk inside 
the universe's circuit board, 

and, faster than light 
can move, splitting 
back in two.

Tuesday, December 5, 2023


In the beginning 
was a boundless (read: 
impersonal) world. 

Only, soon it was 
realized that 
nobody wanted this,

and so, quick 
as a cracked 
whip, infinities 

were blunted—then 
screaming, and 

were invented. 
But once things 

had a shape to them, 
they could then be 

And though changing 
one's direction seemed
judicious as a strategy, 

all were ill 
prepared to know the
death of isolation—

the suffocating
weight of conservation 
of momentum. 

Monday, December 4, 2023


goes something 
like this:
in our race 

to forever, 
I tend 
towards a city—

but you
place your bets 
on wending 

like a river. 
The significance 
of this is, 

as yet, 
still unclear, but 
suffice it 

to say: I persist;
you defer. 
I am 

whereas you
are not sure. 

And my 
raison d'etre is 
to exist. But 

yours is 
to adjust—
to endure. 

Friday, December 1, 2023


Once you 
are dead, the living 

will be retrofitted 

with only those 
parts of you they can 

The monster you were 

will be buried 
in the backyard—

which is to say 
planted there 

to grow its own 

by afterthought, 

until all concerned are 
well inured. 
So I guess 

it's true 
what they say: in nature, 

every poison 
comes paired 

with its cure.

Thursday, November 30, 2023


Year after year, 
a poet's complexion
seem to worsen: 

each new pockmark 
or pimple 

is a line we
should have written;

every blemish, some 
vague image unexpanded, 
gone to waste;

every wrinkle, a metaphor 
we've failed 
to expand on—

or abandoned 
for the sake of some fetish  
with concision. Yes, 

little by little, 
our skin dries out 
and starts to tighten, 

as we feel 
entire stanzas—open spaces
deep inside us

closing their shutters, 
locking their doors, 

growing dusty 
as our cheeks fall 

and our jaws 
become rusty, 

until one day, 
we're left 
with no expression 

but the blank 
verse of rueful 
confusion on our faces. 

Wednesday, November 29, 2023


The faithless 
are those who survive 
long enough 

to watch their once-ripe 
goals become 
fermented into mush 

which they scoop up 
and store in a mason jar 
with the label hopes and dreams.

The sour stuff seems 
to work great 
as an offering 

to those featureless 
angels who'll watch 
over their graves.

It's not 
that they believe 
that these magical creatures 

will come 
and alight and 
eat the stuff—

it's just that 
they know 
from bitter experience 

that nothing 
in the universe works 
without pay.

Tuesday, November 28, 2023


Difficult as it is 
to be understood, 

it seems it's 
harder still 
just to be seen. 

We point to 
the sky and say 
azure blue 

or sage green 
for the sea, as if 
it were true.

Worse still, we 
look inside 

and describe things 
we find there as

or cunning

or disciplined
or young—but then 

hoard away those attributes 
like the balance 
on a gift card 

stored safe  
inside our wallets 

with no intention
to redeem.