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.

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. 

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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?

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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. 

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.

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?

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?

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.