THE BEST POEMS ARE FORGOTTEN

After generations spent

working hard at your desk, 

you head out at last

for that walk. 

Leaves—

which once offered coveted shade

and chattered 

their small talk 

in virile June breezes—

now crunch smoothly

underfoot 

as you junket,

your open jacket 

blown back behind you 

with each chilly gust.

You pass jack-o-lanterns, 

inflatable ghosts, 

grinning skulls pitched askance

on each proudly

ragged lawn. 

Gradually at first,

your thoughts 

turn to patterns,

which weave

and then merge with 

the rhythm of your feet. 

Never in your life 

has air tasted

quite like this. You know it

now: every prior hour 

you did not choose

to squander 

as a waste. 

ALL THINGS

Late in October, 

all things pursue ease.

Tinged 

yellowish, moldy, 

and brittle—all matter, 

all space making peace.

All of us, too

are seeking release;

All at once, 

our eyes, 

knees, and speech 

will grow weak.

What we loved most—

what we sought 

(so we think) 

from the world 

more than pleasure 

or experience—

was security:

a clean embrace, order 

in the storm, shelter 

from the subsequent 

wreck. But now, 

we haven't got 

the spirit left to wonder:

what sort of terrible 

miracle comes next? 

What summer child 

could be born 

of this marriage 

between solemnity 

and death? 

NUTS AND BOLTS

There are lots 

and lots of 

pretty things out there,

but true beauty 

is rare; 

like a blank spot 

which does not cry out 

to be filled in,

the kind of quiet 

which does not announce

"I am keeping quiet" 

in a stage whisper.

We have seen it seldom, 

as we are far too poor 

to afford ourselves 

to notice:

how fortuneless, 

how willing we are

to sacrifice experience 

to the god 

of Having Been There

when really, it was everywhere

(that's why the instruments 

couldn't measure it).

All along, the allure

was attention itself,

not the purported locality 

of its center;

it was the laughing, 

not the laughter; 

the actual fact 

of being seated here together,

not the table 

or the chairs.

HALF

The experts are quite clear 

about talking in absolutes. 

They say 

the matter we encounter 

and the energy feel

is just half 

of a conversation 

we were not meant 

to overhear.

*

Let's face it. Relationships 

have always been a gamble. 

And what is a gambler—

if not a little unstable? 

Like a blip

in a machine, he thinks 

he is special; 

he thinks 

he alone can read 

the clutter of chips on the table.

Just the same way, 

we seem to think 

that luck 

can be stacked;

we recall

how we happened to win

the jackpot once, 

and we honestly believe 

that the past 

makes comebacks.

* 

For eons,  the pious moon

has only been showing us one

of its faces. 

What on earth are we 

supposed to take 

from that? 

It must not be safe yet

to be ourselves.

EDEN

That moment 

when you see a 

snake's tail 

rammed so incautiously 

down it's own throat—

what comes to mind? 

For me, it's:

even the rocks 

are rented; 

even the air 

is tied in knots.

*

Over time, my passwords 

have grown longer, and so much 

less intelligible,

and I am responsible 

for fewer and fewer of them—

it's how I know, 

not only that entropy 

must be increasing, 

but that I am complicit 

in this clusterfuck of justice, 

this snarl of radiation,

which is, even now, 

both splintering 

to bits and evening 

things out.

* 

As if 

|the absolute value 

of the wave function| squared 

were as equal 

to The Real

as your little pliant groan 

of an exhale on the pillow

as you drift on a ship 

toward an islanded dream 

which you invented, 

then discovered—and which 

I am forever 

forbidden to visit.

WAFFLE

Opportunity knocks,

but it's complexity 

who enters,

inertia who pins you 

when ambition 

overleaps.

In Yeats's day, 

things fell apart—

now, they just 

hang around 

mercilessly, 

dilating over time 

and merging 

with technology—installing 

automatic updates 

while you sleep 

with all the 

feigned ignorance 

of Judas's kiss. 

*

Personally, I think it's 

a bit of a 

no brainer; 

I don't dare 

disturb the universe 

because the future 

is determined.

But isn't it probable—

that what the world needs now 

isn't more love, 

but more 

built-in excuses,

a secret trap door 

in a metaphysical

floor, 

a little more room 

just to jitter 

and wobble?

CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE

I exert my own kind 

of pressure 

over time; 

I pass it absent-

mindedly, or else 

forget it exists entirely. 

Like a chooser 

who chooses, with his infinite

freedom, to beg,

I sprun the past, 

with its plain face 

and bad manners—

forever waiting, jungle cat-

eyed

for just the right 

future to appear.

*

Are we dying 

to express ourselves more 

or less precisely?

To fill the tank with self-love 

or empty it 

of self-pity? 

We've been pressured to believe

all these opposites 

arose separately, 

and then synchronized 

by chance. (What are the chances 

of that?)

Who knows what sorts of errors 

have been magnified 

in the process 

of enhancement—

or how many of life's other 

magnificent annihilations 

we find ourselves out here 

wannabe-dying 

to practice.

*

All told, a life 

is a road;

there's one obvious direction, 

but many gaps 

and fissures.

And every savage experience 

is a manhole.

And the language we use 

is its scabrous 

cover.