A SPASM

Never 
mind!—whatever they're
saying

back there—the fact 
is 
that

looking 
away

will always—
be some-
thing

that can only 
be 
done—
all at once;

there's no 
practice—

it's—ready
or not!
one shot!—
steady,

set?
give it! okay,
all the 

spit you got!—well?
I said—
hey,

are you ready?
or not?

UP IN THE AIR

Rainstreaked—the pink
alley men—

older 
than I am—and much

fatter too—pushing to and fro
rustpocked 

rocketred 
dolly carts—and looking

so—
so so
so
very 
distress-
ing-
ly

confident in their piebald suspenders.

FIREBIRD

That part of the score—

where the or-
ches-
tra plays 

all those—

same notes 
as before—
but slows 

way way way down?—That's where her heart

turning 
warm full 
and red—

comes the absolute closest 

to feeling—
life's purpose
is just to be art-

ful—in eating

all—
the 
cherry pie.

POEM FOR MINIMALISTS

—?
what

baby?
what!—

bath
water?

SNAG

It is there!—at the cold 
wind bedraggled
and

loneliest—
crag 

of the 
most snow-
gilded and obstinately 

impassable mountain! that

the softest
little purplegreen 

bubble-
leaved flower 

artlessly—
dances to grow.

AGLETS

Even though—the latter
are technically

much 
more on-

go-
ing—
and totally

still 
sort of 
pending 
and looser so forth—there's still

something

quite a good
bit 
more encouraging 

about
The End—

than there is—
or ever 

could be—possibly

about 
the endings.

ANTIPHON

Do you know—that
singular

vague
yet specific?

chilly 
anti-
septic smell—

ex-
haling
from the back 

of every—
aggressively white convenience store?

So 
do I.—

So do I!

BLISS

Hermetically cramming 
poached eggwhites
at 4:54 in the morning—

his coached narrow bones
made a kind 
of clapping music

perfect-
ly timed 
to fall inside

each meek tink
of brittle
flatware on ceramic—neatly cancelling

out 
the signal—

If your good 
old trick 
knee hasn't caught up with you 

by precisely 
this time tomorrow—your cholesterol 
probably 

still 
will 
eventually.

WARM-UP

It's like—
how 
you already 

know 
so
wholeheartedly—

every single last 
little proud 
diaphanous bubble

clinging indefatigably
to the perimeter
of your eggshell 

mug of sloshed 
coffee—
will presently 

burst!
without 
hesitating;

and isn't
that?
wonderful.

NEVER TOO LATE

Of course—the little trumpeter swan
was born

and bred 
not to bother 
much with flying, but instead—

to spend her time communicating
as big 
and important of things—as 

no other vessel, 
no instrument
or utensil 
or other creature on wings 

could ever dare 
accommodate or conceive!
But eventually 

the strain of trying to hang on
and to render
such stuff

proved just 
too dizzying
and just too tough;

and she slipped
and toppled down
from the huge mountain
of her best-selling
discursive methods.

But at that moment, 
the truth—
so far 

as she could see it
from the pretty incredible 
view on the way down—finally dawned 

that there was really 
nothing out there
larger than life was.

And it was only then—
that she finally
was able

to rediscover 
the one single partial—the open pitch

she felt
she was actually
destined to sing!
And then—

just to blare it!
with no thought whatsoever  

concerning the best 
or most effective way 
of writing the thing down.

IMPACT

Once 
and always, whenever
he's contacted—

the little artist—stooping, 
blushes 

and confesses 
true confusion 
when inevitably asked 

after—such
misapprehended things
as

tools
and a canvas.

Ice—
heat, maybe?

elevation—
compression!

Don't you see? How 
a little 

bit 
of everything

just tends—
to interact
and reinforce

and of course—just dance
with itself
all at once!

when all you're attempting
to make
each day

is just a little
compassion

slathered—as it were,
across the surface
of understanding.

STRIKE ANYWHERE

Quick!
and white—it's not

the notion 
that'll save your life;

it's the 
insight—all flames

once lit—
immediately

consume their matchsticks.

DISSIPATION

Letting go of 
your idea 

that the strongest things
on earth
are mountains,

gradually—rocky
angularity 
can begin 

to crumble;
as 

even all-
along those 
mountainsides
you've never visited—

or dreamed 
you would—

you know somehow;
there's 
flower petals widening

gently to yearn
for yawning 
sun again

after the hard 
and pointed 
raindrops

have finished 
falling—for now.

SPIEGEL IM SPEIGEL

Piddly waxen 
mustard seed—exactly 
how many?

brave and 
inexorable possible worlds?
each

so—
colossal 
and untapped!

I wonder
have you—here
got trapped

irritatingly—
in the 
infinitesimal crack

of black
between—my 
two front teeth?

ODS BODIKIN

Waking up—we walk
and walk and walk

up endless silent flights
of steps—to meet 
and take 

and lift 
ourselves up 
as terrified—little gray children; 

perhaps, the first time,
gravely shaking 
hands to show how

there's no 
spikes now—
nor were 
there ever;

and then—still without speaking, 
clasping close

the child's
little 
folded fingers 

inside our big palms,
which are warm
and soft 

and quite
a bit steadier—
than even we
had been expecting. 

And then we place ourselves 
down carefully
on the ground,
and we just 

keep walking. And that is
absolutely all. 
Walking and nothing 

else 
at all. Except; maybe—it's worth re-
iterating 

how—the entire time,

neither one of us
does any talking.

DEVELOPMENT

Looking deeply into his
own writer's block—he finally saw

but did not dare 
scribble down—how 

splendid!
Paper is 

completely 
paper,

and ash 
is absolute-

ly ash.
But thought!—no,

thought—is most 
definitely 
not 

the bridge 
that might 
exist between them;

for this fire
isn't
a thing—

but a procedure—
a performance!

whose one
and only upshot—
is to burn

itself completely 
out.

THE CARRIAGE AFTER EMILY'S

Because I could not stop 
being clever—being 

clever kindly 
stopped working-

out for me. I still felt that I
was wise 

to notice 
it, however—not to mention

make plenty—of unnecessary 
references

to enrich
and enliven—the transmitted 

sensation of my poverty;
but thank 

god (or—really,
whomever! I surmised rather quickly 

internally to my own pretty 
clean little death)

nobody else
out there! seemed likely

to catch them.

HIERARCHY OF NEEDS

In a dream—bereft and bonethin,
the angel of my soul
slithers forward,

ash-eyed, 
breathless,
and looking desperate-

ly—not for me,
for my 
cunning, or my

artistry! here in this desert; but just 
for a place
to stow herself

safely—until the next 
morning comes 
to calm

the stinging winds,
and embalm
with its tender clemency 

the cold nightwounds 
of her steep-sloping 
exhaustion.

But over 
and over,
on each clandestine dune

and at every single arcane pyramidal
structure
she comes to,

it's the 
same abysmal story—so sorry, 
No Vacancy.

HYPOTHETICAL COLONOSCOPY

Practicing 
your death—each day

you'll surely 
catch 

a pretty—

annoying 
cold eventually.

MOTHER SUPERIOR

Did you ever
notice, back when you 
were small—how

the answer 
to your barren little 
bedside prayer

was never an answer; 
but pure 
silence. A space 

so much more 
profound
than sound was,

and a reminder 
that sorrow 
and melancholy 

not only 
were there with you 
always—but could

nonetheless
still feel tender, 
cooling 

and filling 
your wild 
small child's body.

For—think back;
didn't it 
render you? 

if just 
for a split
second or two,

still—
as tranquil 
quiet water;

reflecting things—not as they were
or might be later,
but just as they 

were already,
before you ever kneeled
and stirred

and blurred them—
with your
wondering.

LITTLE SQUIRT

Dear Mister Philosopher—here's a dab
of yellow-

mustard-yellow 
poetry 

to garnish up  
your reallife desk;

hope
it keeps each 

of your 
work surfaces lubricated

and makes your objectives
harmlessly delicious.

Surely what else? could be
it's purpose—

why else
would you bother to keep a small bottle 

in the door of your enormous
refrigerator?

KING OF MEDICINE

Scurrying—quickly 
out from underneath 

the vast 
and everreaching
penumbra of June leaves;

Droves have come—
this morning
to meet 

and
to hail!—not he;

but simply
an empty 
parading seat—

the elegant throne 
of their bygone king.

None 
can remember 
his hallowed name, 

for Vacancy—
was his 
one true revolution; 

that freedom!
that comes—from 
not interfering,

having once
healed millions,

has toughened 
into legend 

and solidified his feted 
legacy.

And within the entire assembly,
no one
is speaking

and not one 
gaze
is distracted—in fact

each eyeball simply looks—
so relieved 

and so terribly 
tearfully 

happy to see.

INFLUENCE

Sixty, or perhaps 
sixty five million 
years in the making—and sharp

and yet—dull
and unimpressive;

our minds—
though piercing
and potentially fatal

are surely nothing like carbon diamonds.
But more like
rusty nails—

to lie
ugly and unmoved 
by surface pressures—and not

to think
of getting older;

but only—to dream 
of growing
more

and more 
ancient

and
dreadful-

ly—unavoidable.