POETRY

From the white 

obvious sky, 

the white obvious wind 

blowing all 

the big feelings out of me; 

blowing me 

to a cold smolder.

When the 

tips of us numb 

a little, they move easier—

harder to cease 

than it is 

to continue.

It must have been 

an hour now—unspecified 

and serene.

Right now, 

I'd put treasure down; 

I mean,

I'd wager dollars—

there's nobody out there

saying my name.

CASHABLE

Spate of birds 

in a white sky—

dark curling signs.

An endorsement 

on the slip 

of the universe 

that I might be here 

to verify.

 

KNELL

In cold wet late 

November, everything says—you too 

must end.

But our bodies, stiff 

and soggy though they are, 

keep on

lurching 

to the mailbox, slouching toward 

the grocery store. 

The grim cadaverous 

limbs of trees, the bloated wreck 

of leaves 

clotting each gutter,

the bleak iron 

fences, the toneless concrete;

the souls of everything here

keep whispering— 

like us, soon, you too shall be. 

Yet we go about our tedious business; 

we have duties 

to attend. We may be 

frightened, but we, the living 

shall heed no injunction 

from any thing which is dead.

TERRIBLE FATE

With a slap 

of congratulations, 

you are told—

congratulations.

You are 

contestant number  

7.1 billion.

You 

will be upgraded. 

You will be made an 

experimental soldier. 

Your unprecedented 

science-fictional endeavor:

to spend your life's remainder 

hurtling headlong 

into the future—

one second 

per second—and then

look us up 

when you get there.

BEHOLDEN

Hush. Listen. 

Hidden within each 

new pulse of breath 

exists the next 

line to a 

memorized prayer.

You cannot simply 

quit; there are 

no words 

to mince here.

You are not 

a volunteer 

army; 

this is sheer

conscription. 

Every day, every instant, 

it's the same old 

device—

a grizzled drill sergeant 

shrieking

repetitious numbers;

his mission: 

keep the pace of your life 

the same at all times 

without any regard 

whatever 

for its direction.

PROGRESS

Old as I may be, 

intelligent 

and free, 

I still hold my breath 

over bridges 

and whistle past the cemetery. 

Since I know in my heart,

in my 

innermost soul,

I am still just 
a beginner, a student, a kid 

for whom 

sighing 

doesn't sound all that much 

different than singing—

and whom I just know 

would much rather believe 

than insist 

on the existence 

of what he was taught 

to believe 

by a troll

long ago

about innermost souls.

INSPIRATIONAL

Feels like I have been sitting here 

a long time, 

laptop on a card table, 

kids out the window squealing

in the park just out of sight.

Feels like I should know by now 

what it is I'm writing, 

which keys 

will waltz the drowsy blinking cursor 

a little farther to the right.

A curled crescent of a dog is snoring 

on the couch behind me, 

and the light is changing color 

as the ember of afternoon disintegrates 

into the cool ash of night.

Perhaps that's why I haven't moved 

in an hour, let the music in the next room finish 

and start over. Perhaps 

the congealed residue of lunch 

will stain its white bowl forever.

And perhaps that's alright.

UNTENDED

That wanton abundance 

of the previous season,

having given way 

only recently 

to a veteran autumn's

spare skinny elegance, 

all of us 

who feel unloved, 

unknown, unsure, 

and unconsidered

can relax

in a palace of pallid splendor 

made of of colorless leaves

and chimneys' smolders.

As if finally, lost 

on the great lawn of decay—

its withering gardens 

and overripe apples—

we are protected,

flanked by bare bulbous limbs 

on a carpet made of cinders, 

well represented

by nature's squalor—instead

of neglected.

LIKE IT OR NOT

The way we roam 

without burden

around it, as if 

we couldn't be bothered to stay 

and attend.

The way we often stop, 

and sit 

and sip quietly before it, 

so assured 

by the taste of its honey.

The way we gather, 

lean in close to speak 

to one another,

always saying goodnight, 

no matter how horrible.

Mostly, the way 

we continue to write 

and read 

and warm our cold bodies 

by its light—

all these 

must be our ways 

of praising 

this world

in effigy, as it splendidly 

burns.

INDEMNITY

Once, I know I 

didn't weigh pounds 

but ounces, 

and before that, 

not ounces, but eye-gleams, 

mere appearances, notions.

Just like 

one day, I will cease 

to weigh atoms, 

and instead comprise actions, 

sentiments, burdens.

Which is why, 

in between, I shall 

set down on paper 

that it did not matter 

what I chose 

to believe—

the ardent 

or the flammable, 

the glistening 

or the sepulchral,

the terrorists

or their witnesses, 

the hemoglobin or 

the chlorophyll—

so long 

as I only strove, 

before the 

ink ran out forever, 

to lift and kiss all 

that is furious, as if weightless—

and forgive.

PRAXIS

Skin, bones, arms, voices—

everything made 

to contain,

in the course of time, 

will break open.

The eyes, by contrast 

will not; they intend, 

they make choices, 

they hold back,

they close.

The hands 

do not, either. 

The hands are always 

for wanting.

SHORELINE

You, who say you do not

believe in hereafter, 

whose mortal soul genuflects only

before the infinite long 

division remainder—

wherein 

even those who are old 

will grow tender,

even those who are fed 

will grow cold 

and fearful, 

even those who were drowned 

will climb gleaming towers, 

and even those paper-pale ghosts

who don't know 

will finally reconsider.

Simply 

wade out deep enough 

into this moment

and witness 

the equation 

that cannot be solved 

transform, in perpetuity, 

to the only one 

that must be.

SILENCE

No eyeballs, no tongue,

no skin, and no ears.

The place 

where snow comes from.

The inside 

of O.

The moment

you realize

that creed

is not currency—

that the one 

you've been waiting for 

will never 

appear.

DARE

One day, one minute, 

one instant, 

a certain structure, which 

someone somewhere 

once was immensely proud of, 

collapses—

no demolition, no thunder,

no hurricane—just 

collapses. 

Perhaps 

due to humidity-induced

cellular expansion;

perhaps

when a sandpiper's sand-dappled

wing flaps 

three thousand miles 

northwest, on the coast 

of Alaska.

Now, go ahead; 

try to convince the council.

Tell us which words 

from which 

chance encounter we'll remember. 

Tell us 

whose action 

will matter

the most.

DESPERATE TIMES

Is a hole 

that comes out

somewhere 

on the other side 

of the world 

still a hole? After all—

desperate times 

don't call for 

pleasurable symmetries;

desperate times 

call for 

open ledgers.

If a bounty of

ten million- 

year-old bones 

crushed into muck

and siphoned up from deep 

beneath the ground

can still be called 

a treasure,

how come 

what really counts 

when we, the living

talk

is always called 

priceless,

immeasurable?

LIEBESTOD

Yes, even for you,

who thought 

you could use 

the hunger 

(instead 

of the hunger 

using you)

a consummation 

is looming;

a payoff is in store.

Were there one or two 

things you still 

needed to do? 

Look around—

the leaves 

all feel similar 

after falling 

off their limbs;

they do not wonder how they got there 

or care 

what for.

CRACKED

Even in your craziest dreams

most things

still seem sturdy—

the cities    the buildings

the treelines    the streets

You'd never expect 

the sky    the sun to be 

cracked

like an egg in an earthquake 

You'd never see 

a species    a nation 

dissolve all at once in 

villainous acid rain

You might expect 

to lose the respect 

of people you love 

or wind up in bed 

with the ones you 

ordinarily hate 

But curious:

even in your most 

debilitating nightmare

you never expect anything 

or anyone  

to break.

CASUALTIES

Kaleidoscope 

of tangy leaves—

lying erratic 

in wind-

sighing reams,

wet

and then dried, 

and then wet

and then dried—

the stems

the edges

the hearts of our lives 

should be 

crisp 

and pointed 

and clean

as that original fate 

which has fallen 

on thee.

THE RACE

Alas, I was not the first 

to feel,

in the space 

behind my eyeballs, 

the tension 

of a bitter vs. sour nation 

growing so incontrovertibly 

stronger—

to long for a moment

(or an hour) to hold 

my poor ungainly 

face underwater.