AUTUMN POEM

The invisible wind

wends through yellowing 

leaves again, stirring 

dim memories, which you 

may or may not 

have lived-through. 

But it's the sunset 

pall of quiet, and attendant 

strange equivalence 

of motion to stillness 

which really seem

to thrill you.

From here, eternity 

seems to meander 

out past red horizons 

in either direction, 

while the smells 

and the textures 

of creatures you're 

not sure you knew

(though you seemed to)

rush wildly through 

your core on their way 

toward oblivion.

And of course, you're 

neither willing 

nor able to explain 

the peace that such 

an onrush of ephemeral 

truth can give you, 

for you've stood here 

and breathed this air

often enough before 

to know that the bliss 

of remembrance 

is its solitude.  

GREAT DEPRESSION

For a short, blissful while 

in our lives, 

we are able 

to rely upon 

a limitless supply

of inspiration; 

from our bountiful 

dreams, we pluck

copious reminders 

that one plus one 

is not always 

two, 

and that fair and fowl 

sometimes don't 

cancel out each other. 

But sooner or later, 

the hard times 

must hit, 

and we're ordered 

to ration and restrict 

away the abstract. 

Little by little, 

our belts 

grow tighter, 

our skins, red 

and thinner, 

and our vision, 

dimmed and tired—

until, at last, 

all we're left with 

is the discourse

of arithmetic—

an accounting 

of our worth 

using dry, 

brittle sticks. 

Only now, 

stick plus stick 

seems to always yield 

two sticks—

whereas back 

when we could dream,

stick plus stick 

might mean

fire.

RATIONALE

Lately, I am fine 

with being provoked  

into a song—

solitary as a mollusk, 

I might require 

a disturbance; 

I long, perhaps, 

for intrusion—

something wrong, 

over which 

merely palliative 

sentiments may swarm 

 

and accrete 

their invaluable nacre 

of brilliance—

some pretty pearl 

of lyric that I never 

meant to form. 

 

RELIANCE

For some things, 

a middle

may not exist.

The center 

of a universe 

cannot be measured; 

the heart of a process 

has a process 

for a heart, 

and no matter how hard 

you click "zoom in" 

and "enhance,"

all you see are 

smaller 

and smaller 

strands of self-

similar actions.

Therefore, 

rather than declare 

with any kind 

of certainty, 

I'd much rather 

speculate often

and wildly 

that the farther out 

from innocence I seem 

to spin, 

the more I must

give in to some 

tiny grain of mystery—

some talisman 

of confidence 

bounded by its absence, 

like the gaps

between lips in 

true love's first kiss—

my exact but 

mysterious 

center of mass, 

wherever that

is, or whoever 

it was.

IMMOLATION

The reason 

it's always 

so scarce 

and at a premium 

is that Truth (with 

a capital T) 

always hits 

like this: 

first, there's 

a burst—a young 

spark 

of fascination—

followed by 

the pubescent flair 

of self-

righteous ardor

and its blush

of fascination—

after which, 

the giddy flame 

of advancement starts 

to wildly dance,

and then spread,

and ignite,

incinerate,

and vaporize 

not only 

Itself, but the whole 

observation deck 

too badly 

for the singed 

and now-

traumatized victim

to willingly 

(or otherwise)

identify. 

POTENTIALITY

There is no reason 

to worry, I am told—

no need 

to feel shame 

or guilt after all, since

every time we 

bulldoze over 

something that was beautiful, 

we know 

that something useful 

is bound to be created—

a need in the abstract 

is concretely filled. 

And honestly, 

it's a sentiment with which

I'm prone to resonate, 

as I've known

the same premise to be true 

in reverse:

I have grieved 

for every second 

which I haven't spent 

in daydreams,

since I've sensed 

that something 

voiceless 

but equally 

magnificent 

has probably just been 

staunched and stripped 

of every bit of lifeblood, 

flattened and paved-

over—too jovially  

killed. 

TO REVERIE

All our lives, we're 

commanded: 

listen 

well, read 

close, and pay 

attention;

recitation 

of creeds and 

ringing 

of bells is 

tantamount 

to consecration. 

But then, 

one day, 

we may slump 

in the pew—

and, nodding-

off, dream 

our revelation:

that through the raw 

ecstasy 

of awe 

and of terror 

may sluice 

rarer knowledge 

of the vulgar

and the workaday; 

through gaps 

in the soothing, 

child-like echolalia 

of the mass, 

may pour forth 

both the infinite river 

and infinitesimal 

vessel of salvation.

Now, 

whether the next 

great abyss 

we fall into

be our hell 

or our heaven—

who really cares? 

As long as it 

takes us somewhere 

new.