Tuesday, February 7, 2023

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.



Monday, February 6, 2023

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.



Friday, February 3, 2023

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.



Thursday, February 2, 2023

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.



Wednesday, February 1, 2023

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?



Tuesday, January 31, 2023

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.



Monday, January 30, 2023

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.