SIMULTANEITY

Like invisible wind stirring 

phantom leaves 

on a dead-

to-the-world old 

elm tree in February, 

so you, too 

reshuffle reams 

of dull memories 

to which you still cling, though 

you never seemed

to live-through.

You see obscure eternities

meandering forever, 

while recalling 

with clarity, that it all started 

somewhere.

Just for now, all your fear 

can be turned 

inside-out 

to resemble 

what you'd called, in your 

foolish youth, "wonder,"

while the confusion, 

which looms in the darkness

at its center

both attracts and 

consumes you—

like a massive 

black hole in the middle 

of the universe

and a huge, heavy whetstone 

which your strength

will not move—even as 

you use it 

to sharpen-up

your truth.

SYNTACTICAL RETREAT

What are these statues 

we're all turning 

into? 

The slightest 

discrepancy—a pea

beneath the mattress— 

is all that's required 

to stilt integration, 

to pause "Good

Vibrations,"

to completely upend 

the conversation. 

*

In fact, perhaps Yeats 

misspoke in that things 

fall apart;

perhaps they just harden 

and reduce 

and conserve. Until 

all that we are 

is lines, arches 

and serifs—

some just behind, 

some ahead 

of their curves. 

From Abraham and Sarah, 

to Peaches 

and Herb—

sooner 

or later, everyone's 

just a word.

NOTHING'S OUT OF BOUNDS

Spurred as they are 

by spectra 

past our kenning, 

hollow bodies aimed 

by the thrumming 

ultraviolet,

migrating birds 

have no feeling 

for our borders—

just as 

that sadness

which arises absurdly 

and flits among us 

damned to tread cement 

and dirt and grass

will alight and persist

long past its 

advantage, having no sense 

of terminus—

and no respect 

for facts.

CONSERVATION OF ANGULAR MOMENTUM

The will to live is 

a pendulum 

which swings 

from regret to 

anticipation.

The bottom 

of the carton;

a cold whisper 

of Spring;

the sound, on your 

end, of their cell phone

still ringing—

there's no fact 

of the matter 

that won't do-si-do 

because even they know: 

The Actual

is a stopped-clock 

which might 

suffice once 

or twice, but 

The Possible 

is the sun 

that keeps us gunning 

for horizons.

SEEKING ASYLUM

For argument's sake, 

let's say you're

a sort of pioneer 

who casts-off for new

truths on each 

day of the week. 

One day, the sun soothes, 

and the moon's a wedge 

of cheese;

the next, the whole 

solar system's some 

godless conspiracy, 

and you're scared 

to look up, lest they see 

your unbelief. 

Would you still get 

the feeling of 

love at first sight 

each time that you hugged 

the next curve 

of your silo? 

On an exit-poll, would you 

rate yourself as more

or less contented 

than all of your 

dear fellow 

inmates who reside there 

never to be able 

to recall 

the first name—

or the face—

or the smell of the 

devil you know?

MADE GOOD

When all in me is 

quiet, 

but the sound of that quietness 

chuckles

and hums;

when this cursor 

is still

and the page is still 

empty, 

but the inquest is over 

and the sentencing

is done—

let it be 

because 

there is nothing 

I am seeking—

no salve 

or succor 

for holes 

bored-in deep by cold forceps 

of grief 

or bruises drained dry 

by their long search 

for a cause;

none who must see 

for themselves 

need come—

no one 

will know 

how perfected

I was.

TURING TEST

Stop! What is the shape 

of pure, white 

expediency?

Light 

"on its way" 

from nowhere 

to everything? Or

God 

getting stumped

by a CAPTCHA 

before he's allowed 

to complete the next transfer?

"This could take 

forever," we 

mutter (although,

strictly, that's not possible),

as if time 

were our material 

and could thusly 

get corrupted;  

As if truth—

or whatever 

the light is, 

for that matter—

could ever 

be grasped. 

But not grasped 

like held-up—

grasped 

like

interrupted.