Tuesday, July 7, 2015


There—in the raw and undesignated   
newness of morning,

just before—the ink dries
on the signatures of things

and the sting
of your self 

and thumbs its tremendous weight

evenly and hard
into the pulpy grey 

matter of your 
as-yet unproselytized mind—

when the light (even the light currently
motivating your eyes)

still feels—far off
and like it came from outside;

it is there—you must try. 
And try hard. As hard 

as you can—not to think
but rather

to wonder;
How? Just how many times?

in this moment—in this very
room? in this very

same space—prior to now?
have you felt

your soul 
quake like this? having leapt

up! in a split second; 
only to feel chaffed

and confounded
and constrained—by the weight 

of those names 
always coming so rapidly 

and heavily into formation?
And then—in that same space

of time—you must try 
to concentrate even harder.

To imagine 
even faster—the impossible idea

of tomorrow! Of
the next day. Of a very 

next morning. Another one.
A different

one! And yet—somehow, just
the same one.

And then?—And what then? 
What in hell

will you do then? 
And even 

more importantly—
what will you do now?