EBB TIDE

What does it mean 

to say a life 

has been "spent?"

Exhausted 

from treading 

the waters of want?

Or else, from always holding 

our watery hands out 

hoping to receive 

our allowance 

of suffering? 

Perhaps, it's forgetting 

the fad of transcending;

eschewing 

jagged edges for 

softness made stronger.

It's not as if, someday, 

we'll not be 

still filled 

with dubious persons 

and infernal desires; 

it's just that 

we may live to be  

too old to stand up 

and shake their bejeweled 

hands any longer.

LIFE'S WORK

The light 

through the window 

comes in full-speed 

from nowhere 

slams and 

gets tangled 

in the woodgrain 

of the table 

as your hand moves unbidden 

to seize the utensil, 

and it doesn't 

even occur to you 

to wonder if this 

is normal.

*

Once, life 

was broke. 

Then, it got to work; 

life was 

all business. 

Now, it gets the joke—

and it calls itself 

flirtatious. 

*

The little girl 

whose smooth hand 

yours cradles 

gazes up at you now

with a quizzical 

look on her face 

because she's either 

too young 

or too 

something else 

to grasp  

what you mean 

by "a hassle." 

*

Ironically, if you want to see 

the kinds of shapes 

light makes 

when it finally 

slows to a halt,

all you have 

to do is wait; 

this could take 

forever. 

HUNG JURY

You know 

what they say: options 

beget disparity, 

and disparity 

invites the contrast 

which heightens your 

confusion.

Consider 

the way your 

head's tense crest 

always manifests 

emergencies: wild eyes 

under rampant hair,

gone wild 

from the scent 

of predicament. 

Consider, too, the fact 

that you're almost 

exactly sixty percent water—

and that water, 

in all cases, 

rides with gravity, 

pursues ease. 

Which part 

of your being, then,

begs the most attention—

defense or prosecution? 

Which words, 

once incepted, 

are speaking 

even now

for your deadlocked caucus 

of hacked actions?

MIRROR STAGE

Once:

mere confusion 

of the grotesque 

with the meaningless.

Now: a reluctant 

surveillance of the day-to-day;

forgetfulness 

as signifier, 

castigation as 

routine. 

*

Existence 

as a thing 

begets persistence 

as a subject. 

the assumption, half-

forgotten, 

half-lost 

in translation 

is that one must 

perform one's function; 

one must, in fact,

go on.

*

The atoms 

which compose us 

are spinning themselves 

despite our reluctance—

or vibrating 

in place, at least 

with something like 

anticipation. 

Do a little happy dance 

gets 

sent to us 

as automated text message.

Then,

do your own research. 

Then, never look 

back. 

THE PROBLEM WITH PRESENCE

The stirring of bare branches 

by limpid 

eyeless wind;

morning sunlight 

clinging 

like a dangled modifier,

emphasizing shadows' 

whereabouts, 

severing the cold—

this is presence itself 

bearing witness 

to its function.

All the world is humming

to the same 

obscured assumption:

the problem with presence is 

we each perceive it 

as our own. 

LE SACRE DU PRINTEMPS

In lieu of hugs 

and platonic kisses, 

we are succored now 

by noises 

which ripple the horizons—

contrails 

from car radios 

smearing lively streets;

starlings who needle 

the blithe air 

with their whistles;

and laughing-screams 

leaking from the edges 

of our playgrounds. 

And though deeply at peace 

and in love 

with the sounds, 

we maintain 

a light dispassion,

and we know 

this isn't heaven 

by the way we aren't 

fatigued as yet 

with all the repetition. 

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

I like to think 

I write things down 

so that others can see 

they're not alone 

in this mission, 

but truth 

be told, I use poems 

like friction—

to slow 

my roving mind 

with the scrape 

of repetition 

and to run interference 

on my snowy disposition 

with the heat 

from my body's conflicting 

experience.