PLAINCHANT

All you seem to know
or need to

is that—the voices
go
slow

and yet—somehow
faster

and faster,
toward this

ever increasing
and more
protracted slowness,

as they burst
and spread
farther

and farther
apart, until

the divergence
itself tends

to merge
into one

lucid-
yet-
incomprehensible object—

like a high
spidery

firework—
clinging

to the sacred
infinitude
of night—inside the eye

of the
mind—of an infant.

TO WHITE, FROM BLACK

Other
than these,
there are no words

to assure,
no meaning

to hear; only
to make, and none of it
pure. And it's not

that—time
is standing

still while
this happens;

it's that—somehow,
things

have simply stopped
happening.
Except

maybe, for you—

quaking
with confusion,
as to

whether
you're supposed to

feel
empty now?
or full.

MINISTRY OF THE INTERIOR

If there's a god,
it should

be like—
an administrative building,

huge and smooth,
with booming

marble and reassuring
wrought iron—that we

can enter
from outside, and walk

around in-
side of, not only during certain

yellow hours,
but

whenever
we feel like it—totally alone,

no crowds,
no lines or ropes or numbers

being taken, without an
appointment

or any reservations—
aimless,

but still,
every

minute that we're in there,
getting tons

of indisputably
inane business done.

DARK MATTER

There—

in those dis-

orienting 

little hot 

sun-

white energy blips 

between the quick 

downward 

swishes of eye 

lids

and the equally reflexive 

dissolution 

and 

unconscious 

denial of that

glimpse of 

absolute black—

invisibly 

pushing back 

against 

each 

stubbornly fixed 

last

probable cause

and its 

correspondingly 

capricious

proximate effect—

stuck,

like thick 

eye 

gunk, between 

the end 

of each list-

less and fresh

beautiful daydream

and the subsequent slow 

and hate-

fully mute 

recompilation 

of stale 

mental to-do lists;

there—smug 

in their insidiously 

legal 

universal perpetuity,

fat with the

pride over

their illimitable 

dominion, 

and brazenly 

filling—

to the point 

of ultimate-

ly defining—

the allowable volume

of each

of these

possible places—

there

and forever!

shall sit—

the incredulous

and the 

very last 

as-yet 

unexplained

mysteries left

in all 

modern physics:

the irreducible 

constant,

the little 

trouble we 

laypeople call—our 

expectations.

OBSCURA

The roving 

Lake Michigan 

ghosts

of lupine fog—

climbing 

up and

garishly

chewing—the tops

off West 

Loop parking 

garage towers—

make the whole

landscape 

of work 

look—not only

ugly—but 

darkly

self-

conscious about it—

its vertical walls,

like slender

shoulders 

under obliterated 

faces,

tensed

and raised, 

as if vague-

ly wincing

away in their loam

coats of beige-

gray, with the 

huge stress 

of being 

so durably

and deliberately 

constructed—

but then left

to stand there

so unprotected—

and each

turning vague 

with the noxious 

pollution 

of mercurial

weather's dumb 

disinclinations, while still

remaining 

so fixedly—

manmade.

FRAILTY AT NINE O'CLOCK

Nothing particularly strange
or significant

about—
another demolished

three-
quarter remnant

of waxpapery robin's
egg, coaxed

by the
gray morning

wind—into a desiccated
whisper, bobbling now

ignorantly back
and forth across

the green and un-
even wood

planks to the
left of our outside front doorstep.

And yet,
we both stop

on our way
out, to marvel—

I, just
dumb at the sight

of what
seems to me like

possibly either—a sign of new life's
gutsy daring,

or else, it's unfair-
ly high

margin of certain
disaster;

and Lucy,
at the end of her

tether, sniffing
it and

barking a
little, threatened—as a mother

by the apparent
hollowness of the sound.

NON-OVERLAPPING MAGISTERIA

My soul is

a stupid but dutiful

little 

machine—eating

both—

poison 

and nourishing 

things indiscriminately—mincing, dousing, burning, 

gassing—

and spitting them 

up again

in the foamier color-

less form of
ideas, in a desperately

reflexive attempt 

to purge

itself of all experiences;
except

for one—which is already 

so pure,

so indivisible,

so empty—as white 

light is—that it

simply refuses 

to break 

down any further;

the greatest mystery—

weightless,

but thick

with the heavy warmth 

of its 

own sacredness—of how

I would have 

likely been fine

all this time

without you,

but never 

can doubt 

you, now

that I wasn't.

REAL MIRACLES

You've just about

had it,

now. You can't

stomach any 

more truth. Only working

methods

from here 

on out.

They should be boring. 

Like—an egg 

begetting—private,

hot, and yellow 

breakfast—instead of 

some hapless

barnyard thing, all carbuncles,

knots, and hard 

muddy britches and whatnot.

And the simple 

taste,

and the feel—of things 

real to you,

intimate to your tongue. Civilized 

things;

hardy, but not 

riveting—the cutting warmth

of the toasted 

staff of life in your 

mouth, for instance, when it's 

thick, so it

sops 

and yields, with the melancholy 

pudge of that dull 

yolk—because, after 

all, bread too

is nothing—

without the leavening.

POCKET ENLIGHTENMENT

I am nothing
if not

deferential—
God

is a She.
So

properly,
it's

She—
who does not exist.

INDEPENDENCE

Most days, it's 

a struggle

just getting out 

of bed in the 

morning—because after 

all 

these years, you still

can't recall—

which name 

they're using

to call

your generation, 

so you're

never quite sure 

which side 

is the wrong one—let alone

what clothes 

you're 

supposed to put on. All 

you really 

have to go 

on, is—the fact that,

later on, 

you'll greedily eat—porridge

of yogurt and almonds and berries and granola—

as if there never 

was any

gasoline shortage.

EKPHRASIS AFTER KINKADE

So striking!—the way

the holy rose-

pink light of earliest morning

doesn't even 

seem to arrive—because 

it's always already 

been here—generously

warming to glaze 

these old Terracotta

gazebo 

roof bubbles—and tumbling 

to shine those few 

grapevine strewn 

paths of round limestone—

and gently swooping

to comb 

and sooth the distant jungle-

green morass

of thatched cottage tops—
underneath which 

such wonderful!

heterosexual Caucasian 

couples—advisedly

fuck missionary,

devout 

to keep padding-

out 

the reserves—of an army. 

EATING AWAY

Twelve straight years

of strict

training, and he 

still never thinks

twice about 

skipping it 

because it's nice 

out or remotely

considers

attending when it's 

gloomy; nor does he

feel particular-

ly 

lucky under 

the vast, free

wheeling-but-

functional-

looking

networked capillaries 

of pale stars 

(which he 

still sees 

whenever he 

accidentally 

strays beyond

the hedonistic

gaze of the

city) or

even the least

bit chilly

and dim-

witted 

in the cool 

shards of light-

punctured 

darkness underneath

an apple 

tree. But—curiously,

each time that he 

walks past

an outdoor table 

which is empty—he still finds

that he

must actively 

suppress 

an unconscionable

urge—to produce silver

and set it 

for two 

people—and just

sit there 

for a good forty-

five minutes 

or so,

even though 

he assumes—both

that nobody

is coming

and that, if someone ever

did, he'd be

far too spooked—to 

consume anything.

NOW AND AT THE HOUR

The little belly

ache of April

sun is

the only reality 

show

on earth today—

it's great

reveal, more a gradual

unlearning.
Like another famous 

young mother
of desire, slow

but tender,

careful but

fierce-

ly, its mission is

to loom

and coax,

to wax

and wait, while its

target demo-

graphic below,

slowly reconceives

its own

daffiness—

for joy. But for now,

the people are all still 

too white 

with it—too deliberate.

Or else,

too green. For instance,

some of them will try

to tape this 

for later.

And though they

are moved,

nobody thinks—to bow
or to duck.

PLUPERFECT

"...he makes the shadow, he pursues." 
—Coleridge, "Constancy to an Ideal Object"

Walking eastward
around sunset,

you get

smeared out in-

discriminately—
all over town. Somewhere,

a longish
ways behind you

back there,

your colossal 

old shadow 

is smarting—from 

the pain of now

having 

to work
through something,

which you failed

at doing

yesterday.

And back

up ahead, the rose
colored skin of to-

night's body—

detects a sympathetic

thin twinge 

of this shady feeling,

though it

only just

barely registers it—

a slight,

curious

shiver

in the gloaming,
as it 

mutely stumbles

to remember—

how it wasn't

at all! happy

when it
happened;

but it sure is 

now—that it 

already did.

TYPE B

This
is it.

Left alone—you cannot help
but transform.
Soon,

you'll be a
secret

superhero again.

You'll
invert.

And everything
else in the world
will still

be full-color, but you—you'll finally
feel black

and white
again. Your chest

cavity will cave-
in a little,

and cool,

and its
throbbing will slow,

even
as your brain
swells,

and begins twitching
and switching
between gears—pretty rapidly

clicking and pinging and shuffling

between
its equally prized
and reviled collection

of rumpled paper-
thin thoughts,
running fact-

checks,
taking measurements
for cross-
comparison, examining

photographs
and drawing meticulous
 little diagrams on
each of them

featuring all the best-
and worse-
case scenarios;
like paper-mache (no,

Papier-mâché), it'll then start
cutting and gluing
together huge
compilation lists,
and then—
carefully destroying
the now trivial
impetus for having creating them;

After all that—it'll usually
try
it's hand

at solving all the classic koans (no
problem, given

enough time, it
reasons)—before
giving up

on that,
and settling
for writing

brand new ones instead,
like—

Quick!—what is it
you
would
think about?

if—
no

body
was pressuring you to answer that question?

THRESHOLDS

I shudder to think—
if they didn't

have those 

good sturdy 

frames all around them,

oh 

god! 

How

everyone would be
completely 

shellshocked—

roving and 

raving,

like 

mad,

up and 

down the 

otherwise stolid 

marble white 

halls of soft institutes—

simply from having 

to witness

every last appalling,

wildly 

disenfranchised,

and soul-

sickening spot—

where 

even the most

enthralling

of 

paintings—just stops.

LIVE ON THE SCENE

The morning 

after, 

the debased phrase—

I am

that 

I am—still 

hangs stinging 

in the air;

a very mysterious 

prankster's latest 

devil-

may-care,

illicit 

and late-

night

graffito, no

doubt—

scrawled out 

so daring

and

intimidatingly,

here

along the entire
proud brick 

edifice 

of western civilization.

Although—
a few local residents

this reporter 

spoke

with earlier, 

(each 

of whom 

unfortunately

declined 

to be interviewed)

were nonetheless 

insistent—

in their

staunch refusal

to be provoked—let alone 

intimidated 

by—some local 

upstart  

who's so unintelligent;

and whose explanation-

less, 

but doubtless

dubious, motivations—not 

to mention 

cowardly

name!—they don't know.

THINGS GET EASIER

Overhead—in the crisp 

wind 

two quick irises

document the sight—of three 

little round 

glinting tin-

foil baubles—once bought,

once owned,

once 

given, once 

tangible—now going 

twisting,

aimless and 

totally haphazard, over 

and under one 

another—through 

the blank infinity 

of azure. And at first, 

the brain 

registers—oh, what a

tragedy! (though, at least 

they're still 

all in that 

mess together);

but then, afterwards—a mind 

just might 

kick-in 

and consider—that it's 

nice 

how it—just doesn't matter anymore,

whether they 

once bore 

notes of congratulation, 

or 

were always meant 

to be—consolatory.

SPIRALING

In a flash,
the immesurably

vast
and prodigious!

star rippled
arms of the Milky

Way galaxy—
begin

to feel
enormously

scrawny to me;

whenever I
stop—
to think

with a shudder,
of all the

dumb shit I never
have time to do.

SUNSET IS JUST AN ILLUSION

When I thought
I'd, at last

finally managed
to flag

the right
guru down,
I

breathlessly blurted—sir!
please help me,
see,

lately,
I'm afraid—
I'm burning out

from working
and working
so hard—to forget

this or that
day of my
life, which has

already passed.
His advice,

which came rather
disappointingly

quicker than I
expected,
was—kid!

just
mix things
up! from time

to time—
and instead,
try to imagine

that you're
regretting—one

that hasn't
happened yet.

ATTRACTION

It wasn't until—unfathomably,
my fourth time

on the same
benign

bluewhite amusement
park ride,

there—
at the beveled

and acquiescent
final corner

of the last
in a glum series

of very
long nights, that I

realized—
the thrill

was all
in the redundancy

with which—
you sat on the right.

A HIGHER POWER

You admitted 

to me—heaven might not

be real

but suggested it wasn't quite

an illusion either.

You could agree

it was

tricky and weird,

like sunset—really happening 

on some factual level,

but not how we imagine. 

Or, like a float 

in some sunblinded 

and long late-

afternoon parade—functionally empty

but resplendently 

full of its own light—

and perfect-

ly engineered 

to illuminate 

its own context.

You tried to propose—that God too

was 

at least, maybe

a constructive

pastime,

like baseball.

a life-preserving

metaphor,

like traffic signals.

A serviceable 

riddle,

like hiccups.

A convenient 

answer,

like yes-sir.

You asked—couldn't I at least 

respect

some clever marketing?

I thought 

and said—yes, 

I had a lot 

of respect

for just that 

sort of capacity;

so much,

in fact,

that there wasn't

a ton of room left—

for any 

kind of hierarchy.

@CHARLES_DICKENS

Once, I actually tried 

that thing you said—
keeping Christmas all the year.

Turns out—after a
while, you hardly notice the poor thing.
By February,

it gets a bit
restless inside of its
cage—in March,

things get
worse—and you start
forgetting

to feed it sometimes.
And come April, if it hasn't died
or somehow escaped yet,

you just grow—
so ashamed! and debilitated
by your own combination

of working-
class selfishness
and bourgeois neglect, that

the only humane
and remotely
remedial option left—is to put

the sick little idea
out of its misery
by sending it—right

down the toilet.

SYSTEMS ANALYSIS

God, if you really

are God, please don't 

give me 

too much

specific proof. Just—sort of

hover in the back-

ground

and guide 

these poor 

phrases 

limpidly through 

the holes

in each of the letters 

in your name,

imbuing and
anointing them, by
so-doing,

with just enough
of that oily
whiff of the truth—such that 

other men

and women 

will feel subtly moved, 

perhaps 

less by

their message,

than the hugeness

of its

purview—less by

this text

than its 

infallible context.

Please,

make mine 

a stiffer kind 

of corrugated poetry,

composed 

of both—words

and their conspicuous 

intermittent absence; 

of both—

religious-

like conviction

and its occasional 

(forgivable)

overzealous misprint.

Please. 

I'm not even asking 

for anything
everlasting 

or permanent. It's just—

my thinking,
right this second—

really needs a scaffolding.

CHEMTRAIL CONSPIRACY THEORY

April fissures
scar the azure—because

some
dead ancestor—just had

to get there—
faster.

CLOUD EIGHT

Devouring very late
breakfast—of

slimy glistening

hard
boiled chicken

eggs, he licked

his chalky

fingers, clucked

his chalky 

tongue, and once

barely

paused—just

long 

enough to exhale 

and ruminate—that

as soon as you start
to get 

enough

sleep, the only hard

facts 

become—

sex and hunger.