Friday, September 24, 2021


Thirty seven years, 
and I'm still 
this mysterious: 

mid-stream, I'm liable to break up 
into ripples; 

each night, 
each one fords a different 
lonely dream. 


O, to be beautiful 
enough for someone 

to want to come along
and break me in half, 

rend my halves 
to shreds, 

the shreds to dust, 

and then fan 
the fine powder cloud
over the sea. 

"Let's see you rise up 
from these deaths," 
they might say, 

I like to imagine, purely 
out of jealousy.

How many tiny changes 
until this body isn't mine?

Until the world 
as I know it ceases 
to exist? 

When did this revolution

Already, our attention lapses; 
we know

there won't really be a next time.

Thursday, September 23, 2021


It's become a favorite 
David Lynch cliché—

that dark two-lane highway 
connecting two odd 
numbered interstates;

a distinct memory, 
not of the events which 
took place, 

but the interstices  
between them—
the absoluteness, 

not of the dream, 
but the dream's

and the song
that was playing. 


Now, it's as if
the present moment 

were an exception 
to The Rule, 

as if bodies in motion 
could contain 
their own means,

as if teetering 
on the brink 

between never-meant 
and always-will 

were just one viable way 
of a million
to remain.

Wednesday, September 22, 2021


In the milky sky above the square, 
the familiar almost-equilibrium 
of pigeons 

having burst from their fountain 
at the gunning 
of green light engines
now tickling the low clouds 
in undulating ripples,
diving and swooping in hapless formation—

making me 
feel restless; making me feel 

For a moment, I suppose
I would like to be 
one of them—

but no, that's not 
quite right, is it?

I'd like to be 
them all.

Tuesday, September 21, 2021


Every day, 
fresh trauma 
is minted,

is deemed 
too precious 
to spend—

is saved 

is recklessly 

is obsessively 

for later
grows rotten. 


Then, one day,
just before your bullish 
toddler swipes away—

that photo of Earth 
as seen 
from space

as seen 
on the lockscreen 
of an outdated iPhone.

How long 
had we known
it would always be this way?

None of this 
could be lost. 

It all must be

Monday, September 20, 2021


Just like that, the home team 
punts—and another summer's 
florescence shrivels.

The home improvement store 
hauls boxes of gourds 
and dimpled pumpkins out front.

In the park, an almost 
chilly wind thrums;
a stubborn toddler's nose is tickled. 

But rather than sneeze 
from the windblown spores 
of autumn mold, 

she blinks her wide eyes 
and shivers out a squeal instead— 
because she knows, 

from the tresses of auburn 
that loosely overlay her head, 
that though the afternoon

sun grows long, 
there's still no way 
that she is the one 

getting old—at least, 
not really. 
At least, not yet.

Friday, September 17, 2021


The hulking 
gnarled arm 
of a woebegone ash tree

sagging yet 
a little lower with its 
resident crow—

o how I long
to lift it back up, 
to tear all its blight off, 

to shoo 
this dark payload
away from my soul.

Thursday, September 16, 2021


When, by chance, 
you looked up
and entangled my gaze, 

unconcerned as ever 
with what your faultless eyes 
were saying, 

at first, I 
was furious (for I believe that
calmness can kill us; 

it's the friction 
of disturbances 
we depend upon for warmth),

but that madness
soon turned curious, then
began to grow concerned:
what distraction still
in our future will cause 
concurrence to be ruined?

Which of us will be the one 
to look away 
from all this first?