Wednesday, November 24, 2021


Our days are pervaded 
with so much sweetness 

that often, it's counter-
productive to notice. 

Ever realize 
how it's alright 

that you don't know 
what the birds are saying?

You are not living 
at the end of time;

tomorrow will arrive.
There is nothing 

you can do—
or need to.

Tuesday, November 23, 2021


though it is, 

has its upside—

which is (of course)
that no downside 

In heaven, for instance,
what "is" 
is less precious, 

doesn't mean as much— 
and perhaps 
that means more
than we're willing
to admit.


And God said, 
fear not;
to me you are more valuable 

than a whole flock 
of sparrows.

And some who were assembled there 
tried hard not to wonder, 

how many birds really count 
as a flock?

And a few others 
started pulling bows back 
with arrows.

And the rest sort of toed the ground,
or else turned aside 
and coughed.


What is a soul?—
but our sense
of denial,

famously bitter
and let out 
on the prowl.

The look on its face says, 
I'm adamant
I'm elsewhere.

Nothing that happened here
ever mattered 

Monday, November 22, 2021


Nothing gold can 
stay, he wrote,

but nothing 
turned precious 
overnight, either.

Treasure is so 
because, first,
it's been lost;

and that need 
burns worst which 
takes longest 

to arrive.
Like diamond 
from coal, 

the obstruction 
tends the goal—

the mind 
must be squeezed 
til it caves 

into a soul.

Friday, November 19, 2021


It's frightening, isn't it?— 
to find ourselves 
so groundlessly romantic, 

so swept up in the strange 
and the dangerous 
side of sanguine. 

I mean, how conceited—
how reckless 
can you get?

To sit there and wait 
for just the right bird
to perch in your soul 

and sing her unending 
song without words?
Forget about 

the thing with feathers—
perhaps hope 
is that open road

piercing the horizon,
but coincidence
was finding 

some time on your hands,
a tank full of gas,
and no map.

Thursday, November 18, 2021


Some days, 
I'm content
that my head remains 

a black box.
Instead I wish
my chest
was made 
out of glass—

then, you'd
so clearly 
be able to see, 

in my heart, 
how I'm always 

trying to do 
my best.

No matter 
what else;

even when 
it might be killing me;

even when I smile
and insist 
"this is fine,"

you would see 
that I believe it, 

even though you
know I'm 

Wednesday, November 17, 2021


In heaven,
there's honestly 
so little action,

it's a good night 
when the grandkids bicker; 

it's Christmas when 
businessmen step 
onto ledges;

it's a main event 
when Mars attacks. 

and abraded edges 

are the hottest incognito 
internet searches.

is like ice 

in a delicious glass 
of bourbon 
to us, 

and panic 
is our music—

though you would not want 
to call it that.


Here at the bottom, 

in the dark, 
in the wet

where impressions interbreed 
with postulates—

that is where we sit 
in judgement,

while they 
stand and sway 
from foot to foot 

for reasons 
their conscience won't let 
them suspect,

for want of a pot 
in which 
to piss.

Tuesday, November 16, 2021


Ironically, it's usually
the most ageless
of knowledge 

which stubbornly refuses 
to be handed down.

Hence, generations 
have mostly failed 
to notice 

how those of us who acquiesce 
to that stubborn injunction 
to make time 

are always 
the most hungry for it, 
always the first to kill it,

always the most desperate 
to change on a dime.

those of us who are out here 
zealously copy-
and-pasting the past

after years, become satisfied
to dream less,

to wake up in the same place 
a different kind 
of depressed, 

to only entertain 
(but never befriend)

our increasingly 
unambiguous conception  
of lonely.