Prone

Cozied-

up against a shady 

maple's sturdy

trunk in Wicker

Park—I think

 I'm sunk—I think I'm 

dunked as Sunday

bread in nutty 

coffee—

drunk—I think 

I'll never

 

ever again get up.

Penumbra

I don't

know why—I just

feel so

much

braver running

in the shade—

where recumbent

shadows—of roof-

points, fenceposts, tree-

branch spangles—leap

at once;

to crest and cool

my feted

forehead as it passes.

It's like—if

everything

the bald light touches

is domain of

some tan

king somewhere—

then

everything it doesn't—

might just

as well—be mine.

The Pop-Scientist

Augur Man

you're wise—often 

you're surprising us.

Not only 

do you speak 

the truth—you try 

so hard

to make it obvious.

Off and on,

you're serious—on

and off, on-

point again;

either way, you look 

so giant 

and geo-

graphical on television!

Augur Man, your time

is brief; Augur Man,

you're hair is 

perfect—all your 

splendorous 

symbols' clear-

cut color codes were

totally worth it!

Augur Man, please 

speak!  We're 

weak—and hope-

less captives to the weather.

Conjure-up your future-

cast, while we try 

to keep 

our shit together.

Cultivation

Under parting 

skies—a pair

of white moths 

flutter-

down—alighting 

soft 

on one 

particularly buttery daisy—

and I am 

lightly- 

shocked 

that there 

should be words for that.

Uproarious

A pair of 

roving black 

crows—perched

 

for a 

moment 

on a mound of 

dead wood—flaps

and

cackles

loud over the post-

storm scree and rubble.

Itinerant 

bastards themselves—they know

that home 

is not a joke—at least

not in the same kind

of side-

splitting way

that 

flood

insurance is.

Rainy Day Satori

It's like

how—

effectively

nothing

nobody

no one

is coming—

you can't escape 

jails

of definitions—

or really

prisons,

technically 

speaking.

On Land

On the high-

way—loud and 

colossal 

clatter of 

traffic congestion—high hiss 

and low rumble

of wind whipping in 

through rolled 

windows—are just about 

drowning 

Eno's 

Ambient 4

as it dribbles from 

little car

stereo speakers—pooling

in pockets 

of some abstruse 

or more-

arcane quiet.

Terrific!

I think—

suspecting 

that's probably kind

of the point.

This is Really Nothing

Kate I'm always

looking for you 

in all 

the wrong places—always 

mistaking hastas for 

hydrangeas—taking

hasty pictures with my 

phone of daffy 

pairs of mallards—singing Stormy

Weather to 

myself in foreign 

accents—always misspelling hello

on purpose and never 

ever 

eating

lunch on time.

But I seriously don't know

what that has 

to do with anything—just like I don't

know what I'd 

do if I found you, other than 

tell you all this

at the end of the day

—just 

to make you smile

—just to make 

you laugh—just

before your pretty 

head slams 

down hard on a red

pillow and I lose you again.

Fulsome Prison

Humid downtown 

mornings—in June you simply can't 

escape the oily 

pungent smell 

of waxy 

potatoes frying—

off to some pale ideal of

lucidity 

in burnt-iron troughs of cheap 

grease.

Imagine over-

abundant mounds 

of russets cajoling red-

golds maybe 

even fingerlings—torched

crisp and lingering imperatives 

to crack and 

break your fast—

but also just soft 

and bland and brown 

and plain-

as-day enough to quickly 

fix it.

Spherical Geometry

What if—every

little

step 

just felt like 

full arrival?—

anywhere 

you

chose 

to stop 

could only 

ever be—on top

of the world.

Coca-Cola

God is 

no longer 

the real thing—

it doesn't 

make any difference 

though—they're 

buying it.

Between Kingdoms

Listen! From the tenuous top-

most 

branch of a blue-

shaggy pine—a sparrow's 

proud crowing 

falls 

and spirals-

out the widening world;

—animating 

the inanimate, abolishing 

the competition 

between—

In the beginning 

and—World without end.

August and 

lusty he suspects it must 

just bear repeating—

life, all 

life, 

all life

on earth—he trills—

remember it happened 

only once;

its just,

again, it must 

have born repeating—

about a billion

billion—

billion times.

Reverse-Mandalas

It's sometimes

shocking—

the sudden

apparent solidity

of clouds—

how quick!—vast

graceless

possibility of watercolored

sky gives way

to silent caucuses

of breezes, coalescing

vapors—christening new and un-

imagined luxuryliners—

the kind

most can't afford

to board—let alone dream

of owning.

To Joy

Have you ever

just piled-

on so much

Beethoven—maybe while

laughing

loud gassing and

flying

down shining express-

ways at height of mid-

morning—

that

after a while—

the ground just gives out,

and

suddenly

nothing adds-

up anymore?

You know—like

how

"all men are brothers!"

and so—

actually,

none of them are?

Rubric

On a messy man-

made pond—rumpled 

eager ducklings 

learning

to swim make furious

little wakes

—distracted by stray 

bluedragon-

flies and careening 

by the 

chaos gushing 

madly from the source's center—

while 

sleek nearby 

their mild mother 

glides trackless

—and efficient 

through the brownsilver water.

Pithy

Pale sour

proof—that the

last man

standing

is the one with

no aim—oozes

like juice

from a humble and

lopsided lemon;

the difference

between it—and a vast

glass of pink lemonade

is roughly the

difference between the

best idea—

and the best idea

anyone's ever had.

Unless You Get Fired

Eight a.m 

alarm—
on vibrate—missed

your 

window—things
look ugly—can't

look forward, can't

go backward—just
try getting

sunlight from a dark-

roast coffee!

Shut your eyes

then—only listen

to all the ignorant
birds and
bugs who only know their season—

the busy buzz of
bees is pretty
sweet no matter
which o'clock

disgraces morning.

Eucharist

How

diaphanous

the inky black-

berry!

provokes my

tongue with

thrills

of sable

music—melting,

dissolving,

gone—and that

That (not

specious

This)

Was God.

What is Real?

Quick—picture

packs

of powder-

ed 

emphatically

non-

dairy cream-

er.

Bound

Adjacent

to the jammed expess-

way—a few horses

swishing

easily their tickled

tails—

content to keep

other-

wise still—and

low

in fields of endless-

ly

—repeating clover.

Juno, Nevertheless

farmers market

—hallelujah!

humid 

browsers—hallelujah!

cloths

red-

checkered—hallelujah!

honeysuckle—

HALLELUJAH!

beaming baskets—background

music—coffee and focaccia incense—

shrink-

wrapped frosting—hallelujah!

smushy salesman

—hallelujah!

"five for

twenty"—hallelujah!

Christ! Cash 

Only—catch 

you 

next time.

As Is

Intransigent 

symmetry of two-

lane blacktop 

walking path entreats me—

stick to the right 

side

stick to the

right side

stick to

the right side—and my 

legs and I 

just comply

thoughtlessly—

never mind

the way each side's 

deserted—never 

mind what things are like

on the other 

side of that emphatically 

boldyellow line

—I'd rather wander 

cheaply than wonder 

free but bound 

to such an

expensive new perspective—besides

there are probably 

endless ways

that we are free

to see but never 

really meant to.