DAILY PRACTICE

I started out
by

counting
the minutes

then
the hours

and now, the days
it seems

that I can
go

without
saying—

a single
original thing.

TRUMAN SHOW

Around noon,
as if through
a wilderness

I peer into
the Burger
King's windows—

where,
despite the ridiculous
mutated
shit you can get there,

fellows?

gals?

tykes (with those
crowns
on)?

perch—
greedy over
incomplex hamburgers.

Ketchup-red
ketchup

blotches
offwhite napkins,
pools (like

you'd think
it would) on unfurled
rectangles

of tissued wax-
paper, as I
compulsorily

imagine the sound
and the little
tactile satisfaction of its crinkle.

Have I fallen
asleep,

am I
being lampooned?

Nothing
could ever

be this simple.
I mean,

even
the tops

of their buns
are that

kind
of

cartoon-
shiny.

CHESS LESSONS

1.

Hang on—is this
a contest

to be won,
or a problem

that needs
solving? Wait—look

at how! All the words
you need

are here, each piece pre-
invented.


2.

This is not
black and white.

Ham and eggs
are black and white,

things—are black
and white, not this.

This
is something different.

Unless,
maybe you've just been

terribly impatient—with
the time it's been taking

the light
to get here.


3.

Your best defense has been
to grow

old, gradually
having come to depend

on a tremendous field
of specialists

to whom
you're worth more alive

than dead. Even
Better yet—despite this,

you still get
to keep

such secrets
beneath

your kingly cap: even
the baristas,

for instance—to think,
they'll never know

your pauper
origins,

your real
last name.

HASHTAG APHORISM

     "Everyone is in the best seat."
     -John Cage

Everything is state of
the art in this
twenty-

first
century stadium
of information—where even

the inexperienced
are
privileged

to know—
what
really goes

into
a bratwurst—
when they

bark for
one—
court-side.

AUGUST (HAIKU)

That buzzing noise! was

the sound—of wet flies fucking

in your garbage can.

WILL TO POWER

On a dust-
caked sidewalk across
the street

from a brave kinetic
hive of construction, I pause
to watch

the secret
saffron-
haired foreman—plunked

down and clutching
his own dare-
devilishly

yellow
Tonka truck,
with which he endeavors

to govern
by example,
masterfully affecting

with each
tacit demonstration,
positively massive

amounts
of sheer dumb
change

upon the landscape.
In my imagination, I briefly
become free

to simulate
halting this tutor
to ask a few questions—

but realistically,
I'm in such an awful
big hurry

to carry-
out a
prior commitment—

walking
and shouldering this
seething and senile

envy back
home,
where it

feels
the most
comfortable.

DECENT POEM

Okay is

fifty-

one percent. 

Fine is (technically)

failing. 

Dandy is  

your doctor 

calling

to say you're 

alright 

despite 

a couple  

ailments. 

Pretty is 

almost

never exact, 

so it 

can be 

handy to 

remember—profane   

historically  

referred

to a thing 

that had 

recently 

become 

very

popular.

TIDBIT

The soft word—
meal

feathered
down from the

lips of this
penitent

stranger attending us
makes me feel—

not satisfied, but
focused—

gently tuned
to make a more

sonorous chord
with the

few philosophical
orbs of murmuring

light beyond our table
by the nourishing

signals I'm gently
lapping-

up off
of such

a clean
noun.

PIN PRICK

Even before starting, 

it feels faintly 

painful

and exhausting—the terrible

long shot 

that anything 

is ever really 

like anything 

else. But—

whatever.

So this poem has 

no magic

pebbles in it. No

majestic power

animals or extremely  

hot peppers. So what? 

Maybe that's 

just it. 

Maybe that's 

the whole premise—

maybe it's

last night 

or this 

morning, and we're at

the train stop, we're

on the internet, 

etc.

when—

the same thing happens.

I mean, the very 

exact same stupid 

old numb inane pin 

prick of a thing as usual—only 

this time, 

it feels 

just a little 

new.

Which isn't 

to say (don't worry)

there's really anything 

you're supposed to feel

or do about it

afterwards.

I'm mostly just trying 

to distract you

while I 

give you this 

little—

inoculation.

HEURISTICS

Because of a word
and its associated
number I heard,

my only real
concern when camera-
shopping is the megapixel.

*

Because of some cartoon
character's
casual expression,

honeydew
is 
the money-melon.

*

Because of a book
mom read
when we were six,

gluttony is a concern—
and chocolate's a
legitimate trigger. And

ever since
that movie my brother
made us all

watch once, Ancient
Egypt is forever
conflated with godless deep space.

*

I still want to show you the way I love you,
only these days, I don't
know how—guess

I never even noticed
all those
shortcuts I was taking

whenever I chose
to just—write you a song.
(But because of

a pact that we
made back in
college, we can never break-

up ever again anyway, so maybe
it doesn't matter?—how often
I hurt you.)

*

Because of—fuck,
I don't even
know

what—quick-and-
dirty has
lately become

some
sort of
virtue.

LATE DEVELOPMENTS

1.

I feel like
things used
to happen—in time.

Now, they
happen in
spite of it.

And things used to pass
between us

in space. 

Now 

things exist—

in its name. 

2.

I feel like it's 

fairly exotic

to talk

clever to you 

in tight 

and cropped

sorts of back

and forth

comments on the Internet. 

*

But I also feel like it's now

fairly logical

to intuit—that the opposite 

of distance isn't 

closeness, it's

height.

3.

I feel like—
the real

first rule 
of Fight Club 

should be—
wait stop right there you're fucking talking to nobody.

4.

I feel 

like you're always

already okay

with me

anticipating all the main speaking points.

*

But I also feel

like you

and I have

so much in 

common that it's

hardly necessary

to talk any-

more.

5.

I feel like
things used

to happen—
to me.
Now,

they all occur
inside,

and I'm
not sure whether
that's easier

or better,
but I'm positive

that 

nothing could 

be both.

CLOSE UP

Cut to—me
feeling unsure
how I'm supposed to

respond—
when I hear
the news

that a casual
friend's pet has died,
the stubbornest way—old age.

Just me, sitting
in my kitchen, poignantly not
sipping coffee, as if thinking—

you never really
beat these
sorts of things,

exactly. You only
become them, one
by one, your hairs gray, you take

on their features—
until gradually,
nobody asks

how you're
feeling anymore
(is the camera still zooming?)

because its so
painful-
ly obvious.

WORMHOLES

1.

An old friend's

eyes be-

come the skies;

not blue, just

really—cloudy.



2.

God 
forbid!

is the phrase

your
grandpa used 
to use

back  

when the universe 

still had a center,

and now you 
still want to

ask him—but 
no longer

need to:
Who? 

and Do—
what?

3.

You've become
too familiar—
with the thwack,

thwack, 
thwack of beady
houseflies hurling their black

bodies
ceaselessly into
my bathroom mirror,

with not asking
Where's a good 
opening? But

Why isn't there 
a good opening—
right here?


4.

It's always
like this, but it's

only there,
in the sticky-

warm 2 a.m.
stillness between nightmares,

that you're
temporarily able

to just barely
feel it—that Form is 

wherever in hell

we are, and

Content is
just whatever

the devil
we're doing.

HOMESICK ALIEN IN CONSTRUCTION SEASON

The lifeforms
down here must be obstinate

parasites,

and this harsh

frontier land, a
cancerous wheezing accordion,

each distinctly upended
precinct of skin

wounded,

collapsing, and

shiftlessly
regenerating—

the aggregate 

cacophony, so booming

and tuneless,
I'm afraid

there is little
use—and no

space—for a
sermon like this.

RAUSCHENBERG BLINKS

Wincing,
he thinks,
this is it—

it is
time to
speak

up—the
perfect
feeling

does
not
exist.

Unimaginable
hypotheses
can never

be tested.
The most 

extraordinary

thing he can 

picture still
demonstrating,

is an airport
of light
particles,

a scaffolding
for shadows,
a homely

receptacle
for pure
white silence—

none of
that black
variety, he

figures, since
every soul living
is already

going around
staring pretty
unconscionably

hard at that
kind, maybe
fifteen-to-

twenty
times a
minute.

NOT ANYMORE

In the future we imagine,

there is still

gravity,
and obviously plenty

of ground,
but there's no more falling

off and down, because there

aren't any

wagons.

*

To get into fighting

shape, you cannot just run—

you've got to start lifting 

and lowering

the stakes—in a smooth and controlled  

manner, at a super-

slow cadence, until—

failure.

*

A Haiku: wasn't

that—your last name they just used

on the evening news?

*
 

I didn't tell you this
at the time

or else

you wouldn't have ventured
this far out—but

it's like

kidding
and being dead

serious at the same time—

from now on
you're always going to feel

hungry, but not really 

for 
anything.

BOOK SWAP

Near the northwest
corner of the crosswalk,

a navy green
box stands proudly

empty,
as if

to reiterate—
an experiment

is only a failure
if it fails

to adequately
test

some hypothesis.

*

On the dingy
snake-

skin gray
evening train, only the eyes

of Democrats
reading

Kindles
are smiling.

*

The latest in science 
and technology

has perfected
the art—

of wanting
what-

ever it is
you get, the billboard

hung
over the stuffed

expressway insinuates,
without

malice or
apology.

*

Self-care?
a Humbolt Park guru

paws the
magazine's
pages—

no 
self,

no—
cares.

BREAKTHROUGHS

What if—
fear
and pressure

aren't
values, they're
vectors—

they don't
just have
magnitude,

they have
direction.

Good.
Let's 

go 
with 
that.

*

What if—none of this is your fault,
but only

because
you never did

anything at all.
Never invented,

neither caused
nor reacted

to whatever came
along and

destroyed
it.

*

What if—the problem you're having
now is

he doesn't seem to
mean you

when he
talks about

himself any-
more.

ET AL.

Aquamarine
panties

puckered
with secret
dawn-

pink seashells—oh I feel so
cartoonish-

ly
annoyed they're
on the bathroom floor.


2.

Blowing to sip (just a)
halfcup

of morning coffee,
I stop

conscientiously lending
a breath to

ask you
how your period is going.

*

The response—I'd call
sober,

but not at all
scientific.


3.

I feel vaguely satisfied

that a certain
but very nonspecific

goal has been achieved—

me having
said your name

so many times in a row now,

that it's done
meaning everything,

past meaning nothing,

and has officially
begun standing-in for

anything at all.

ASTERISK

This could be huge—

where
huge 
refers to

a
feeling,

and
this
is taken to

mean—
nothing.

SIX-PACK

Useful

fact—

most things aren't 

true,

they're just quicker

and easier

than others

to

reach for.

*

What do you have 

to say 

for your-

self?

says one reluctant

helix 

to 

the other.

*

Honestly—I can't think of a
single thing

that's right,
can you? Like 

it or not, new points 

of view

always seem to come shrink-
wrapped 

or else shackled

together

in those convenience-

paks.

* 

Yum. 

Thinking of 

ordering-up some 

FAQs—

fresh 

from this mobile

site's 

hamburger 

menu.

*

Only one straight line
can pass between two points,

and it keeps my eyes wide

open at night—to think

that I probably haven't thought
long or hard enough

about every last single-

minded 

melodramatic

rationalization 

this image

could imply. 

*

This isn't all there is.

Because there isn't

a last thing. 

When the final answer being given 

is bigger 

than its question 

the only 

choice you're 

offered—is

to somehow 

go backwards,

upside-down 

in spacetime,

to never

having

asked it.

CACHE

Closed-up
nice

and neat

and tight like
a fist,

a pursed
exotic

flower, perpetually
bent

toward
ideal morning—

silent,

you're so
proud.

Alone,

you're so
sharp.

Still,

you keep
hid.

Palm
of the hand—safe.

Bulb
of tomorrow—

sacred. Such
beauty

and utility
in

you, kid,
dovetail

perfectly—
so as to

completely

cancel
each other out.

PROCESSING

The sweet things in life, to you were just loaned
So how can you lose what you've never owned?

-"Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries"

*

Wondering—
if I eat

something
do I

own that thing?

*

So keep 
repeating it's 

the 
berries.

Okay, it's
the berries
it's the berries it's
the berries it's the
berries it's the berries
it's the berries it's the berries it's
the berries it's the berries it's the berries it's the

*

Wait. Maybe—

Life is not

a bowl

of cherries afterall. Maybe

It's more like

the rigmarole

of trying

to digest so many.

The sweet parts

get slurped-

and burnt-

up way too

quick, while

the rough stuff

does a little

menacing

manhandling

and such, but

ultimately

gets dropped—

unceremoniously,

but more

or less still

intact—

from the top of

your system's

proverbial Empire

State Building,

almost

comically fast—like a

cartoon cannonball.

NOT HOME

"I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"

-William Carlos Williams

1.

Gradually, you and I have grown 

to resemble

more and more the

grubby flies

that trespass against us here

whenever the 

heat in the alley runs 

high,

the way we 

keep stubbornly 

banging our heads 

to occupy 

one or another 

rented sets of rooms,

always condemned to eaves-

drop on 

groaning foreign

language histories of warm wood, 

always—only

coming

in

from the outside.

2.

Following several 

years of relentless shredding,

once in a while I'll
take a day

completely off

to try and

pull myself back
together,

but it's 

just so exhausting 

attempting to

make the splinters fit. 

3.

Goodness, gracious,

you say 

you wish

there was

something you could do 

to help me 

love you

the way 

I used 

to love you 

way back

then, 

which was, you

conclude—forever.

ON INFINITY

Last night, I found
some stars
on the

ground,
warily walked
across them, thought—

it's just as well;
these here
are

equally
real, both
only chalky rote re-

presentations
for all
present and

foreseeable
purposes—and
(nodding) yeah, if anything,

it's easier on the
head looking
down—

POISE, COUNTERPOISE

1. 

Decade stacked on decade,
the world has gotten heavier,

but the load hasn't made me any stronger.
Most days now, I find

my quads 

are totally zapped

and shaking like hell 

from spending all morning 

bent at the knees, hips,
and waist

with so many people's
past lives

all heaped and
perfectly balanced—squarely

on top of my 

future-proof back.

2. 

I almost never even 

think about it, the 

foreman 

mumbles to me vaguely, 

shrugging 

off any guilt—

since every time 

these machines 

pave over something pretty,

I know something 

useful is 

being created. This makes me wonder,

is that anything like—

how every second I spend
not in reverie, 

I'm equally sure

something clever
is getting killed?

HEROES AND VILLAINS

There's
no such thing

as a classical man,
which is

really great
news for his romantic

children,
who always dreamed

of growing
some serious

Isaac Newton hair
but were

too scared
of having

to cut
Bob Dylan's.

MONDAY

Okay, let me try this

whole thing again—

What are the words
that formed the world?

But an ocean in my mind
keeps washing

away what I know,
and then,

washing it all right
back in

again
such that—just

as I
suspected—

most of the things
I see on this beach

are so small 

and so similar 

that I can't
notice each one,

I can only
name them all.

Except, I sort of
suspect, for one

or two,
which are far

too huge
to call

at all—let alone

to use.