DEAR CONSTANT READER

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-

optics 

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.

ORIGIN OF INERTIA

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 

separation, 

screaming, and 

television 

were invented. 

But once things 

had a shape to them, 

they could then be 

interrupted.

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. 

THE FIRST EVER LOVE POEM

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 

precise, 

whereas you

are not sure. 

And my 

raison d'etre is 

to exist. But 

yours is 

to adjust—

to endure. 

COMFORTING THOUGHT

Once you 

are dead, the living 

will be retrofitted 

with only those 

parts of you they can 

endure. 

The monster you were 

will be buried 

in the backyard—

which is to say 

planted there 

to grow its own 

protector, 

afterthought 

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.

WRITE OR DIE

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. 

RESIGNATION

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.

CONFOUND IT

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

whisper-soft, 

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.