Wednesday, June 30, 2021

MENTALITY

Do not think 
of changing your mind 

regarding 
where we should meet 

or what you want 
to eat

as capricious 
or easy; think of it 

as practice—
greasing the groove

for the one 
indestructible, 

changeless move
to come.

*

Although 
no neuron touches—

but shouts  
only "yes/no!" 
to—its neighbors, 

somehow, 
together, they dream 

of a point man
who speaks for them, 

who listens, posits, 
then explains 
the mechanism

of their uncanny 
existence.

*

My mind is like 
the crowns 
of these trees 

which are proud, 
symmetrical, 

dense with leaves—
but which 
nevertheless allow

the wind 
(feral, inconsiderate

old friend 
that it is)
to holler through 

and rend them 
from their 
sycophantic branches 

any old time 
it pleases.



Tuesday, June 29, 2021

OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR

The truth 
about distance 

may never be 
determined,

but over the course 
of a lifetime, we 
have learned 

that now 
is so much 
more demanding 

than belief 
in the future 
ever was—

how 
our movements tended 
to leave a smudge 

on the juxtaposition
of objects 
we loved—

that we did not know 
until we knew

that here 
was the heaven 
we'd always wanted:

the open sky, 
the cadenced plain, 
the words 

(which were 
never quite part 

of ourselves)
all dissolving,

and all 
of the history 
we’d pursued 

until now
in the frame
of the rearview. 


Monday, June 28, 2021

EQUIVOCATION

To become nothing 
but a blip 

in a system 
filled with circuits 

would seem 
like a step 

in a worsening 
direction. But

how do you think 
your intuitions would flip 

if to become something
was to know it, 

whole and private
from the inside,

and to know a thing
was to cherish it 

for the span 
of just this moment—

which, as with 
all previous 

and subsequent 
moments, also consists

of a circuit 
filled with blips

getting broken 
or switched?


Friday, June 25, 2021

HYPERTEXT

"Don't get any 
big ideas," they say 

as if concepts 
had a shape,

took up space,  

put on weight.

"Don't be so 
hormonal," we snap 

as if phonemes 
could cross 
the synaptic gap; 

as if we weren't 
wordlessly
speaking to ourselves.

*

Perhaps experts 
minted profane words
for sex—

for violence, 
infirmity, and
betrayal next—

not because 
they must be 
discussed, but 

rather, to act
as talismans,

so that we 
wouldn't have to 
contain them.

*

With the web cache 
of hindsight, 
we can now see

the brilliance 
of the 20th century 
poets 

was to mishmash 
their analogies

and to formulate 
their metaphysics so exquisitely  
backwards: 

plainly, ideas 
are not in things

they only exist 
as the bridges 
between them.



Thursday, June 24, 2021

EVENTUALLY

When you were little, 
you were taught 

that time 
is divisible, 

that someone would be coming 
to pick you up

later. 
Even now 

you can't seem to rule out 
the possibility 

of conditional  
rescue entirely—

after all, 
you do not want to die
frightened; 

you'd rather go 
bitter.


The question 
isn't whether 
or not 

a heart comes 
to be broken—

or even 
when and how—
but rather, 

how 
uniquely? 

How beautifully 
scattered is the 
shattering pattern?

This must be the measure 
by which we earn the right  
to call ourselves

extraordinary 
individuals.



Wednesday, June 23, 2021

STAR PHASES

1.

Each instant, undaunted, 
a new future rises, 

then falls, exhausted 
through the present 

into the hole 
of the past it imagines.


2.

If I'm sure of anything, 
it's that stars don't "align"

without the scrawny perspective 
of the bleary-eyed night-worker.

And if they ever touched? 

That wouldn't just be 
a disaster.

More like 
the industrial 
factory that makes them.


3.

Somehow, what once was broken 
may be briefly reassembled 
at the death of the sun;

eons of discord, suddenly inverted,
could become
a pop song. 

And a pop song 
could be a life 
in its sum—

bursts of transient 
color, sound, 
and temperature; 

so far, you're 
not less—and hardly
any more.



Tuesday, June 22, 2021

COUNTING TO INFINITY

Even in doing 
very little, 

every little life 
must accrue. 

In the space 
of time 

it takes a whale
to blink an eye,

uncountable unseeable 
ecosystems are moved,

great galaxies 
implode

long before their constellations'
names become known,

and you—every step, 
at once takes you farther 

from the home 
where you started

and never any closer 
to the place you meant to go.




Monday, June 21, 2021

LONGEST DAY

After fissures 
of lightning,

and the crack 
of thunder is over,

the first day 
of summer 
pours out all over—

the fresh honest light 
of a morning 

seeking nothing—
like a sentence
only started,

or a promise
not yet broken,

still moving-
ly devoid 

of any meaning 
or utility. 


Friday, June 18, 2021

ALONE

It's the brain, 
locked away in silence
inside of its case, 

that causes the moon 
to appear 

larger 
on the horizon—

in order, perhaps, 
to make itself 
less conspicuous 

to silence's stare,

and its distance, 

and its dark.


It's the way, 
when a body stops

for more than 
one second, 

this slithery sense 
of permanence attaches—

the pit in your 
stomach, say; or 

a neutron star 
far away.

*

I feel so alone. 

Remind me again 
what kind of stuff 

we're all 
made of—

bone meal and 
table sugar,

or stardust 
and wave functions,

or diploid cells, 
cloned

and then cloned
and then 

cloned?




Thursday, June 17, 2021

BEGIN AGAIN

First, the curtains.
Then four taps 
on the arrow of the thermostat.

Let the lagging thoughts stray 
all safe 
to their stops.

In soft light, take the white cup 
down 
from its spot, 

and try to keep your focus 
off that word— 
"habitat."


Wednesday, June 16, 2021

COUNTERPOISE

Perhaps tenderness 
is less of a kiss 

than a small buzz 
on the skin,
that momentary itch 

which displaces 
our heretofore 
uniform composure 

in a distinctively  
pleasurable way.

*

Perhaps, the heat
we encounter

when some 
little kindness
from our recent past 

rubs up against 
some rough patch
in our future 

is the same kind 
of friction we mean

when we try 
to speak about 
loving each other. 

*

Perhaps peace 
isn't rest;
it's a reflex 

when life cleaves,
leaving spaces
between—

it's no coincidence 
that our sheaves 
of opinions, 

persuasions, beliefs
all seem to shrivel 
like leaves

when we're finally 
at our most helpless
in sleep.



Tuesday, June 15, 2021

QUANTUM ULTIMATUMS

Perhaps it's high time we 
re-calibrate 
the instruments.

Perhaps if we began 
with our 
second thoughts—

and then 
worked backwards—

we wouldn't get
the answer

but at least
it'd be 
a start.

*

Just try 
to jazz correctly 

and analyse 
these harmonies 

while you're moonstruck 
by the melody, 

and see 
how far you get.

*

On a silent chess-
board, stuck 
in stalemate,

each object 
screams the same 
obvious thing—

our compulsion 
to grasp
the weight 

and the shape 
of each 
piece's intent

is what keeps 
smudging up 
all of the photographs

with some filthy, 
face-shaped
silhouette.



Monday, June 14, 2021

SEEING THINGS WHOLE

When it comes 
to gleaning the 
difference between 

what happens 
and what is

using only 
the tingling 
fingertips of consciousness

running up 
the spine of this
body you stole—

any less 
than confusion 

is far worse 
than useless;

it's much more instructive  
to wonder 
than to know.



Friday, June 11, 2021

THE HITCH

It used to sound overly 
mystical 
to suggest:

There are no such things as 
separate things; 

there are only untold
relationships—

even between 
what hardly exists 

and that 
which is barely 
noticeable.

But it began
to make sense

when we 
image-enhanced
the spectacle 

of our own 
unkempt apprehensions—

which, unwittingly, 
we seem to have 
all left to dangle

so low 
for so long 

that, sooner or later,
they were bound 
to get tangled.



Thursday, June 10, 2021

MY ATTENTION

The way 
the light strikes 
the exuberant fountain 

and careens 
around in 
galactic filaments, 

deflected, again 
and again,
from its circuit 

by the 
harrowing splendor of 
flickering surfaces.



Wednesday, June 9, 2021

LAST WORDS

Globular notes
from an out-of-sight 

but patently 
nearby wind chime—

dissonant 
and sonorous, 

edgeless 
but intersecting,

fleeting
as they stay—

oozing out 
like quicksilver 

thoughts 
from your brain. 

*

If those were your last words, 
how would you know? 

How long 
would you try 

to hold on to them
before you realized 

how loose this whole 
time they'd been 

fastened 
onto you?


Tuesday, June 8, 2021

LAST DITCH

If we'll never 
be able to 
get things straight, 

maybe we can 
at least 
get them even—

if it isn't 
too late,

make the harm 
that we've suffered 

roughly equal 
to the weight

of the blame 
we have cast

like hot lead 
into bars 

which we clench 
with our hands, 

and then rattle 
and shake

having long ago 
lost our own
furious track 

of whether 
they were forged  
to protect 

something good
or contain 
what went bad.



Monday, June 7, 2021

EXPLANATION

Why do we 
put so much 

faith 
in explanation

even though, 
like the wind 
through the trees, 

we can hear 
others groan
and creak as it rushes,

and we can see
from the looks 

in their faces
how quickly 

it 
dissipates? 

*

At best, our speeches 
trickle out little

prickles 
of heat 
 
like the friction 
gradually 
realized between 

those raggedy actions 
we took 
in the past 

and the reams  
of their consequences, 

which have yet 
to materialize. 



Friday, June 4, 2021

FACE FACTS

What if, 
rather than illuminate, 

there are certain 
types of light 
that distract. 

Perhaps, rather than 
becoming motivated 
to act, 

we simply remain 
too fond 
of the brilliant.

Through dilated pupils
and clouded cataracts,

we turn without 
thinking toward 

the nearest 
warm and effulgent 
thing

and fondly 
call it heaven—forgetting 

that, heretofore, every 
day on the Earth,

the sky was so bright
we couldn't see 
beyond it.



Thursday, June 3, 2021

WHAT WILL THEY THINK OF NEXT

God, being God,
could use magic

but he doesn't. 
The end goal 

is simple; evolution 
is the stratagem.

But this Rube 
Goldberg device 

(by definition)
is elaborate—so 

the instructions 
come slow 

on an old record 
that sounds bad. 

The tragic shows
are also the most riveting, 

according to 
the marketing department. 

But you—all alone now
in your home,

with internet, fear, 
and a phone—

what are you supposed 
to make out of that?



Wednesday, June 2, 2021

POINT-TO-POINT

Again and again, I tend 
to emerge

as a sun 
through fringe clouds,

from a mid-
morning dream

like a cave 
underground 

with a stomach 
that feels enlarged

though I know 
that it's not—

and a head 
which is so thick 

with the banter 
of creatures 

that I can't bear 
to speak, so instead 

I'm just thinking: 
I know what I said 

about rational sense, 
but

could I have been wrong 
after all 

about the straightforward nature
of sensation?


Tuesday, June 1, 2021

LABOR-SAVING DEVICES

As if to 
make up for 
all the strip-mining 

relentlessly, we are 
filling up every crater 

with our
avatars—

more and more 
food porn,

longer and longer 
trains of 
Instagram stories, 

smarter 
and taller and 
hungrier children 

who never can know 
what our names were.

*

Let us create 
a "greater awareness" 

of the connections between 
slavery 

and labor-saving 
devices. 

Progress achieves 
a rhythm of its own 

almost 

by definition.

*

Perhaps our detritus 
is harboring 
hidden energy.

From now on, don't just bury 
your feelings 
in words;

touch here 
and try to match them up 
to each picture.