SURRENDERS

Hard-
ly listening

heroically to
the FM classical

station—as it continues
to conjure-
up illimitable

piano quintets or
something similar-

ly prattling and swimmy
of Schubert's or
whomever—from my parked

car's little speakers—I'm nonetheless

powerless
to turn
the ignition—and combust

forever
this pretty
precious and powerful

moment
of pure and

decent
taking-or-leaving.

A SWAN, PRACTICALLY

Kate—I surely love

the slender 

longness—of 

your tender neck 

pretty well

and all 

but 

realistically—an awful 

lot 

less 

arduously—than I seriously need to 

kiss

the stiff

and indelicate-

ness of the

lengths to which it often goes for me.

A WALKING ANEURYSM

It's almost sweet

the way your light heart first starts

to feel slight pressure

as

redgold smithereens

of another early-

dawning winter 

morning—gradually get drawn together;

as those 

smoldering shards 

of last night's quaking silver 

dreamstuff then start

swiftly cooling

into another 

battalion of 

such hard—and brutal ought-tos 

quickening

fast to war now and already

marching onward—forward with fresh arrows for

the onslaughts—and quivers- 

full 

of bloody ardor for yet another 

one 

of yesterday's goddamn-doomed tomorrows.

ART AS PROCESS

There aren't—exactly 

lots

but there 

are 

some—

times when merely

having already

had 

your idea 

will still you—when that image,

say, of an idle

and windless 

old weather-

vane that once 

stirred you—now just

fills you—all the way 

up till it 

thinks 

it might 

kill you—and suddenly,

low-

and-behold—already 

feels 

like it's—oh so much

much

too much more—than enough.

APPREHENSION

Abigale, pretend!

pretend!—And then 

one 

bland day—stop 

shuddering 

at—or even 

simply

studying

its subtleties—and instead

just 

take

its hand 

in your hand 

and—without thinking 

shake

that hand 

and feel

truly— 

as a body can

the full-

on

pull of absolutely 

nothing 

holding nothing—back.

WITH DAYTIME HIGHS APPROACHING THE PAUSE BUTTON

All that a—narrowing 

mind 

can still 

note is that

the near-

frozen whites

of its 

tough-to-flit eyes 

have never

been shown 

such a clean 

and near-motionless—smoke

suspended—in spools so

thick

and dead-

silent

and tethered-

up tight 

to remote and 

girded rows of rough rooftops;

as if—

even the most ethereal 

of vapors out there 

must take special care

unfurling—

in such unfeeling air.

MUSIC FOR THE MODERN WING

Calmly conducted
on
through the next
to last
soft airy corridor

many tired
pairs
of dark boots
step smarty—of their own accord

forward—
in time
by the
light repeating

whole notes—flung
down
across long wooden

staves—by the
perfect
light of consecutive
and
infinite windowpanes.

DEBIT

So much the worse!
for tough
bums making jingling

music—out there
on the
frozen street corner—

that passers-
by
in headphones hustle—bundled

up
even further!—clutching steaming
paper cups

in one hand—and terribly
smart
phones in the other.

NERVOSA

Spry arctic
wind—I just can't
believe you

cartwheeling down
the grey-
purple avenues—

so skinny
and blue and blisteringly
free—while the dismal crowds

make themselves
fatter
and slower in streets

despairing! even as they
trawl on—continuing
to circulate

rumors of your
ongoing
fitness and popularity—

and none
among them
daring enough

to articulate their hunger-
ing hooded

secret whispers
of far-
away—or nearly

impossible
things—like red peaches.

PERFECT STRANGERS

Thank god!

for those pink 

and Polish 

chubby cops—classic Chicago-

accented brown

and khaki-

clad—ones

who come fast

who stop

and help

and hear—

by the disorienting-

ly flashing and on-

rushing roadside—your side;

whom, later-on 

you remember 

only— 

such mawkish-

ly irrelevant 

miniature things—a plain silver 

band squeezing fat 

and strong fingers—the ones 

that executed 

procedure so reassuringly

deliberately!—

the clean cold

glint of 

a gold bar that stopped after

the letters -s-k-i—

the curious-

ly apropos

rhetorical fact

that after all that, it was

nothing—and they 

simply necessarily never

ever

see you again.

NO PUSSYFOOTING

Wake up—quick, where

are you?  

At all, or

were you?—Out there yet-

again, I guess—

the only ever 

sober sailor 

pitching—will-less

and wild across 

the wine- 

dark water—remembering

but not 

quite,

the swollen taste of

the wind! Your

cap! 

You're

windy, cap!—keep this up,

and the brass-

ness of your

buttons will surely snap!  

And: what shall we 

What shall we do with a—

What shall we do with a—do with a—do with a

another repetitive    

song about loss?

Resolve

Resolve

Resolve it—yes,

you will become

lost—

in watery labyrinths now

and then—and present

ly find your way 

back home 

again, 

to bed,

again

but next time, 

not quite—that is

to say; a little 

bit less—

indecisively-

so,

and wet. 

SUSPENSION

But how?

ought we 

proceed

to breathless-

ly behold—

the lovely look 

of any little

thing that arrests us—when, for instance 

that impossibly 

clean—and comely smoke 

of purest cold—

tinged so 

beguilingly reddish- 

gold by the gaudy 

and 

charmingly soulless 

morning sun 

that wreathes around 

such pretty lines

of glinting 

idle expressway cars—

is the very same stuff 

that's making

our breathing 

more than 

a little 

interestingly hard?

WINTER FLOWERS

Approximately wind-
less—
gossamer veins

of easy
snowflakes
blooming—silent

arpeggios
in fresh
pothole mudpuddles—

COFFEE MATH

Uncountable chest-

nutty 

dust of arabica—laughing

and whirring 

away in a stainless

burr grinder—tacitly

instructs us

us—that sometimes

our purpose

in-

creases

when pulverized.

SPELLED OUT IN HER TEA LEAVES

Caffeinated well
enough but still—she's walking
dead and

pinched around
the shoulders and
neck; stuck
wondering—stiffly to her
empty cup

at the hellish-
ly winter pale
weirdness—of any such

insidiously
light
and mysterious
force that could possibly
rise any earlier

up than
she does—seemingly just

to coerce her
unbearably

heavy
limbs to come
all the way
dressed every morning

before
abruptly dissipating—giving no
warning
and taking neither

credit—nor responsibility.

PRACTICING THE PLAYER PIANO

Not a bit

reticent—the shyest kid

in the world

will grin 

and sit with great 

familiarity 

before a brimming keyboard;  

demonstrating 

publicly—its hale 

and its hearty 

and pure aspirations 

had yearned 

for 

as long 

as they lived—only

to counterfeit, lovingly

hers.

And to think—you and I, 

we must have learned

to be brave

in just

that same way—by behaving

repeatedly—as if

we 

already were.

PLATO MIGHT'VE HAD IT UPSIDE DOWN—

Because—god!—there's been 

some cold

early mornings! when

I've thought

in the dark—that

I might 

only know 

how to love

the unlimited—

touch

and smell

and sight—of such

coarse!

and corn-

stenchy

brownness!—

that's

somehow

instantiated—down there, some-

where,

spread vaguely across

the endless-

ly ill-

defined 

top—

of its dog.

IDES

There's always

contractions 

in mid-January

All over the city—

that moment

we're finally 

moved

to feel older—

when on top 

of our 

shoulders

the little 

spangled crowns—

the silly holly 

and ivy ones

we've been wandering

around 

here half-

merry with since 

last year—turn brown

and yellowy grey

and get 

wet—and then

frozen—or else

start

to mold-over.

All over town—

our complexions

and our 

outlooks 

all start

to even-out—

until even those

pale browns

that we're left-

with—begin 

to look 

a lot paler—not just

than they 

ought to, but 

moreover—

than they used- 

to

a minute ago!

that is—that minute

or so

right before 

the city—like clockwork:

took 

Christmas back down.

TWIN PEAKS SEASON 2 EPISODE #23

In which—two towering 

cups-

worth

of even—

the blackest

and hottest!

fresh 

coffee on earth—becomes

almost 

certain-

ly

worth a lot 

less—than

two 

separate chipped

little white

cups 

of the stuff—especially!

when pains-

taking-

ly

conceived-

of

then—realized

then—aggressive-

ly 

presented 

(as 

such) as 

so epic-

ly 

adjacent—to each's 

respective 

twin 

plate 

of plain pancakes—

GRAND JETÉ

Compacted now
but—fiercer!

each rain-
sharpened
body of svelte

curbside ice
in the city
grows somehow

increasingly
insistent—on even

bolder
mis-
appropriations

of ballet
moves—from its usually

stiff
audience—of bulky passers-by.

NO FILTER

Walking slanted
in edgeless

winter, when
my appetite—

like rows of neighbor-
hood blueish

brown brick
houses—soaks a filthy

yellow color, sharply
pointing

toward
a vacant white;

is when
I wish

most of all
that I

still
smoked—hot dry cigarettes.

SUPER EGO

And Lo—with a 

pop! and a 

quick click,

there was

at once;

just such a

reasonable—justification for 

conceiving

of another cold 

morning's 

tricky writer's 

block

as an injunction—

symbol 

after more apprehend-

able symbol—

towards greater 

devotion to the stark-

outlined

perfect-

ly thick 

squares across 

circles 

of 

unusually salient—

steaming hot waffles.

DON'T LOOK NOW BUT—

We're still 

impaled—together 

out here—idling

stuck!

in our own white 

city's bright

and collective 

engine's morning uproar.

Stuck! and standing-

frozen-

still—while, 

hell and all- 

around us rush

not wheels

but 

cymbals—by which

I simply must

mean just 

the crashing sound of—

but here, wait;

and 

see; and

let's—

adjust! and—presently

be touched

to notice—an object;

any!

object's—vast 

variety, at last!

Finally

revealed by such 

wide or tiny 

movements,

not of itself, but 

instead,

of us—

its 

oh-so-

willingly down

and 

piteously out- 

bound observers.

RED CRAYON

Whenever 

it is—

that 

the word 

and 

the thing

are drawn-

together so-

perpetually 

that they start

to move! 

at once—toward their great

goal of

becoming—once 

and for-

all

one 

and

the very 

same thing—alas!—

such specious 

and

pregnant 

sorts 

of 

moments

always seem 

to want 

to tend

to bend

forever

down 

and off

of their container pages—slowly

moving, melting

flowing,

dancing!

waxy

to-

ward exotic

kinds of 

ruination—the kind

known only to our 

awkward boxed-

in

senses

of dignity—as pure 

embarrassment.