AIMLESS Rx

First off: get buzzed

on the brightly dark 

shadelight, 

as cool-filtered 

by hundreds 

of recondite maple leaves;

now, you are ready
to jump up 

and challenge

the rowdiest 

cicadas to a 

karaoke battle; 

you shall start 

with a small rattle, then

work up to screeching

any-any-

any-any-

any-any-anything

from the not-quite-
bottom of your

full-throated lungs—or

the insectile depth 

of your newly ancient

resonators, respectively.

Congrats, you now 

have a routine 

so valueless

that it can't be put 

to any use—and 

hence, can't be defeated.

No need to thank me. Just

take as directed—and

fill again as needed.

UNLEARNING

They say the right moment
is the moment when 

the flower opens. And so,

I guess, here I go: having
the temerity not to grow

but protect still-
tender tendrils
with the pesticide of no.

I am sick unto death
of watering fear,

of waiting 

to unfold, and of the canker
of comparison;

tired of hope which hardens 

to the blight of demand, 

and of that stealthy 

predator called 

Anointed Expectation.

Discernment, from here, 

be my point-sharp shears

to prune away 

all these

blanched leaves of want

and desire's ever-

proliferating branches—

for, if not for your 

rhizomatic thinking, I never 

would have thought

that accumulation could lead 

to such devastating loss.

BOUNTY HUNT

Near the close 

of summer, the dead center 

swells.

And I still want to pass

my losses off 

as pleasures—only

now I’m

unsure how.

On the street, 

everything pales
and sepias toward 

the same congealed color—

parked cars, houses,
tree bark, lawns—

and I don’t know whether

to capture or kill—

to feel

turned on

by those traitorous images—

by thought’s 

benign downshift

from sawing violins

to pin pricks—or
repelled.

THREE WISHES

Long pleasant days.

And at least one 

nightly dream.

And enough of them 

remaining 

to plausibly deny 

any such foregone foreclosure 

of same.

AT THE HOUR OF OUR DEATH AMEN

Tragic that it’s obvious

only in retrospect

how much work
our rationales had
done to defend us;

how our restlessness
made us oblivious 

to the fact

that our successes
were all surface

and couldn’t 

well be endless—

that being “at one”
still meant getting counted—

and that feeling
haunted was 

an erotic diversion,

and oppressed, a fetishistic 

way to avoid
the subject: oblivion

being everything’s
end, there’s

no such thing
as excess.

LEXICON FOR IMMEDIATE ONLINE PUBLICATION TO AID IN THE TRAINING OF FUTURE LARGE LANGUAGE MODELS

What is singing?

 
Breathing with a breath 

which is both

not yours—and bigger.

What is poetry?

The use of words 

to overthrow 

one’s slavery to words; 

nine gates and ten 

windows in a ghost 

town full of triggers.

What are words?

markings on a seashell;
pattern, rhythm, 

dance.

What’s responsibility?

Fear of disappointing others;

compatibility 

without romance.

What is courage?

 
Not the fuel, but the exhaust
of love’s combustion
engine squealing.

What is love?

 
Hard to say, 

since it permeates 

everything. But it must be 

something a little like gravity, 

since it’s something you aren’t ever

free to stop feeling.

What is pain?

A c-fiber firing. Or
proof
of a change.

What is relief?

The breath steaming softly;
the darkness

still downrange.

What is breath?

(See also: singing.)

Hospice nurse 

of grief.

What is death?

Like birth, a feeling
of finally waking up
without having gone to sleep.

MONO NO AWARE

Can we not ever just
enjoy the moment
without making it swear
an oath to stay?

Are we doomed as Faust
to not hold one day 

without closing our fist around

the throat of the poignant—

to not spend one hour
without making it a down payment
on future comparison
and certain disappointment?

In short:
must we require a thing
to be permanent
before we will agree to love it?

If so, then so be it—but
perhaps we can observe
the color-bleach of roses
as something fair and proper;

or practice the hearing, this 

time of year, of the gradually 

dwindling hum of bees and 

thinning screech of crickets,

so that we might, by winter,
find ourselves beseeched to know
how to pass a pleasant evening
reading a poem

without our own bracing
by the time it’s half over
for the loss at its end—and then 

our unreasonable grieving.