ENVOY

When you talk 

of heaven, 

it makes me 

think: assisted living—

endless 

florescence, 

manic

Pan Am smiles;

nostalgia 

for bitterness, 

abrasive edges, 

panic;

and last but 

not least, an orderly 

or two—

under authority

and paid out 

of pocket 

to profit 

by my insights 

and crucify 

my doubt.

I GOT WORRY

Our misery 

(god willing) 

may be a 

slender thing, 

but its looming 

casts a long

and a 

powerful shadow. 

In fact, when stooped 

underneath it, 

it's so dark 

and so cool, it puts 

the backbreaking blaze 

of halcyon days into 

startling relief.

So sue us 

if some of us 

choose to savor 

our grief

and recline 

in the dimness 

of its gloom 

where it's safe—

for, as far as 

we recall 

of that bright world 

of mistakes,

we've never even 

seen ourselves 

with a look of peace 

upon our face, since 

the only time 

it might possibly 

look that way is 

after we go to sleep.

ASK ANY PHILOSOPHER

It's offensive

how we glamorize 

the groundlessly romantic; 

reckless 

to find ourselves 

so swept up 

in the dangerously 

doe-eyed 

side of fascination. 

Though stilted

and miserly, how much 

wiser by far 

to stuff the soft 

caresses and 

intoxicating liquors—

to shun 

the perkiness  

of flowers 

and the amorous

light verse of

sentimental cards? 

For love is no 

warm feeling; it's 

an existential gesture—

a chagrined-but-willing 

yoking of your slender, 

feral welfare 

to the equally meager—

and no less unruly—

progress of another's.

DREAM LOGIC

As sure 

as the imperious, 

sunlit sky

obscures the vast 

networks of a 

needless astronomy, 

this waking life

too, is a mere 

obfuscation  

of your groundless

but illimitable capacity 

to lack.

No tricks; it does 

not matter where

you have been, since, 

everywhere

the black space of 

nothingness tingles,

existence's 

white pulses throttle, 

and hum.

As all 

that you know 

is slowly dissolved, 

you grow to see 

the wide open 

vacuum behind: 

a possibility 

which seemed to exist 

at one time—

was, all the while, 

a necessity 

always. 

EQUIVOCATION

How many times 

will I have to change 

my mind

before I turn into 

a brand 

new person? 

Is it sudden 

and discrete—

like the lucky 

millionth customer? 

Or 

must a process 

this mysterious 

happen imperceptibly—

gradually, 

over the course 

of each 

tortured decision, 

compromise, 

agreement, result, 

and resolution? 

Perhaps 

the transformation 

has already begun?—

But it's probably 

for the best 

that I don't know, 

since 

if I did, I am sure 

I would try 

to resist.

SOLO A CAPPELLA

If it's said that 

the dead 

can still reach 

out and speak to us,

why 

on Earth 

can't our precursors? 

Where 

are all the hasty, slipshod 

mock-ups 

and the models—

all the dinged prototypes 

of our parents 

and kids 

that never got 

the chance to exist? 

Perhaps this 

isn't fiction; 

perhaps 

this unlucky legion 

does whisper 

in the mumbling 

of motors, or the swish 

of tall grasses,

but the words 

that they utter there

are just so 

outlandish 

in their aberrant 

combinations 

of ghastly and ecstatic  

that our ears 

can't bear to register 

the significance 

of their air pressure—

so we walk on 

from the spot, chagrined 

and convinced 

that we must 

just be the 

only ones 

withdrawn enough 

to wonder this.

END GOALS

How long have we been 

at our desks 

tweaking the plots

of dreams we 

have yet to dream—

working them, 

kneading,

until we feel 

we can smell 

some faint form

of sweetness 

rising from 

their shells, 

passing right through 

and all around us, 

and then, 

just as quickly

leaving? 

* 

It's so much more productive 

to catalog 

the physical: 

electrons 

and up quarks; 

protein strings 

and ribosomes—

simple units 

of fungible meaning 

that only mean 

themselves.

* 

Self-love 

is a destination 

the same way 

a mirage is:

a brutally-born

hallucination 

which ardently 

beatifies 

the tyranny 

of distance.