NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION

At the quietus 

of an old year, let this be 

my decree:

only that I 

be patient—resolute 

as the trees

which stand mangled 

by wind, 

tickled by cold rains, 

or insulted by sleet

which forgets

how to slow.

For I too am exposed  

to every whim

of this climate;

I too 

sometimes dream 

on my feet

of flocks in formation

with their beaks

at true north, 

or the vulnerable shapes

of those first buds 

in April. 

THE RULES

In the free market 

future 

your favorite 

TV show envisions, 

our isolation

counts 

as a pre-existing condition;

sex-workers 

talk jargon 

because intimacy 

is cheap and too quick-

ly dismissed,

and "numbing-out" 

is finally considered 

a good thing—

synonymous not 

with desensitization, 

but a healthy respect 

for the hard work 

of avarice. 

*

Maybe in reality, 

the rules 

of engagement 

by which 

we had governed our 

most successful wars

were not as fixed 

as we'd previously 

been assured;

rather, they existed

as a random pastiche 

of late night show monologues, 

Lenten confessionals, 

memorized stump speeches,

and Shakespearean soliloquies 

overhead, truncated,

scrutinized to pieces, 

then placed into a hat

to be taken out 

of context.

SPRUNG FEELING

Like rats 

in their mazes, 

or fish in the ocean,

so much emotion 

is trapped 

inside language. 

But when we try 

to free the anguish

enmeshed in our speeches

or crack the vast 

lightness that's 

stored in our poems, 

the outcomes 

are more than a little 

lackluster; 

for the sprung feeling 

can't last where it 

doesn't belong, 

and it soon 

retreats back to the 

refuge of its prison—

the only other option 

being: certain 

suffocation. 

SYMPATHY FOR A PANDEMIC

Perhaps this virus

isn't just trolling us;

perhaps, like an 

overtaxed capitalist or 

reformed absent father, 

it's touring us 

by the millions, 

desperate to find 

the consummate 

picturebook vacation home—

a respite from the cold 

of its walking-

dead existence, 

a substitute 

for the warm hearth

(pathetic as that is).

And perhaps, 

minute after minute, 

its zombie hopes 

are dashed afresh, 

as it checks in 

to another one,

kicks off its shoes

in a bid to relax, 

and takes a blithe 

look around—

only to find 

it's got nothing 

but clones 

of itself to spend 

time with. 

NOCTURNE FOR THE END OF THE YEAR

All of your crowded 

desolate days

now stand bruised  

behind X's on the calendar.

It figures: only on the verge of this 

next reincarnation

does all of your deep-

frozen hope start to crack.

In the next room, revelers 

move strangely to boiler-plate music,

but right now, it's you 

who feels clunky, underwater—

as if, somehow you've waded 

too deep in a lake,

waiting for their searchlights, 

flair guns, or sirens;

but nobody cries out 

to warn of your mistake; 

no person jumps 

up and down on the shore;

no one, with arms waved, is 

calling you back.

NEW YEAR'S EVE

Already, I see it's getting late.

Soon, I must head out 

to rake and gather

all that I've done 

and failed to do 

together; 

and, without separating 

one from the other, 

to set fire to the bunch—

hear the words pop,

watch the deeds crackle.

For only then can I resume

my odd processes

of writing notes to myself 

and making friends 

idle promises 

in the purified, ashen, desolate space 

which another December's

conflagration opens up.

NEW YEAR'S POEM

For all the anticipation, 

the end

is so sudden;

we are thrust

at the future, like drunks 

at grim dawn.

And the bracing scents

of pine and fir needles

offer little consolation 

when the sky here 

is almost as besotted 

as the ground.

Back in summer, we 

felt certain—in autumn, 

unconfined—

the hand we held

was perfect; the love we had

was sound.

Now, starved for light,

in a surplus 

of seclusion—

amid gift cards,

bright carols, infusions

of wine—all we want 

is to find our way back; 

all we need 

is more time.

SILENCE

What is silence

but our home 

address? 

I mean—

not the current one, 

but the place 

where we came from.

Each time we open 

our mouths to speak, 

we must sneak 

from its windows 

and flee the perimeter.

But over and over 

(in our scramble), 

we spill 

one more precious thing 

which can never 

be refilled;

and, flustered 

and frightened, we retreat 

there again, 

locking the silent door 

of our childhood 

bedroom—where,

before we flop down 

disconsolate 

on the bed 

in the shape 

(and the muteness) of 

a fetus in the womb, 

we grab the 

silent radio 

knob with one hand, 

and—buttoned-up, 

status-quo parents 

be damned—

we twist hard 

as we can—really 

crank up the volume.

UNDERTONE

If existence has no meaning, 

surely, it must at least 

have an undertone—

like that resonance 

you still hold 

at the tip 

of your nose, 

even after a bell 

is done ringing;

or the mysterious color 

of light on the limestone 

the instant an afternoon 

flows into night.

Perhaps we simply fall   

into the mood 

of believing 

we've endured this far 

only by measuring 

the distance 

not as the difference 

of now minus then, 

but a collection 

of formerly useful

decorations—

as many different 

colored ribbons,

misshapen, slightly shredded, 

torn from ex-birthday gifts,

saved in a old shoe box 

underneath the bed. 

TO THE OLD WOMAN

To the old woman—

shriveled 

but elaborate, 

caning her way through this

noisy supermarket;

removing every egg carton,

groping all the fruit; 

despondent 

yet expectant in each instant 

to endure;

focused on pleasure 

as abstraction, not sensation;

uncertain and determined 

in profoundly 

equal measure—

this is just to say, 

you and I are too alike:

every day, we're surprised 

to find ourselves 

still alive 

on this magic-tinged 

slice of our 

fascinating world;

and yet, we still oftentimes

relish being silent, 

horde 

our disappointment, savor

being bored.

WHAT NEXT

With hindsight, 

distance sometimes wears a halo 

of affection.

After all, 

something dark—

something ignorant—

connects the stars;

what must it feel like

to pass that gap

between them, 

to love that thing most 

which you'd never 

come back to—

what sort of next-

level closeness 

does that reflect? 

*

If you were to watch me 

from the porthole 

of a fast enough rocket, 

at a far enough distance, 

would I smear out 

like an arpeggio 

of notes?

would the last thing I told you 

remain ripe 

in my throat?

When you go, 

I can only hope to remain 

frozen to this spot,

so that, from your point 

of view, 

I will always be 

saying this.

THE JAR

There are few 

to no leaves 

this nadir of December—

yet the wind is still playing 

in the limbs 

of the sycamores.

To witness 

just this 

on an afternoon street 

is stranger than unvarnished truth,

more nourishing 

than food or drink.

How lucky, for an instant or two—

to find oneself 

simultaneously 

standing downstream 

from the brutal effusion 

of tomorrow's mad mysteries 

and sitting on the cap  

of the jar 

of human history.

At least, so far—at least 

til the very next breeze 

intercedes 

and gratitude's 

vast volume

must be cataloged anew. 

AS IF

Just now, on a screen 

whose dimensions 

you can't believe,

whatever remained

of your narrative 

is dissolving.

Meaning well, 

you move to grab 

and hold yourself 

as a little kid—

but alas, the only way 

to touch him

is to catch him

doing the wrong thing.

*

Uncertainty 

never swerves 

from the center of the horizon.

Does this thought leave you

intrigued, or sick 

and distraught?

Listen—

the next sound you hear 

may be the last; 

it may be 

addressed to you—

or perhaps 

it may not. 

* 

The contact high 

is temporary;

soon we will have no recollection 

of these stars.

As if 

such faultless darkness 

were really the force 

of genius 

making its meaning heard

above the torrent 

of piss—as if 

having learned 

the word 

for inscrutable    

were the same 

as comprehending it.

CLOSURE

One by one, 

as if on 

assembly lines,

weapons are built

in the shape of 

men and women. 

The more complex,

the simpler 

the launch code;

The greater 

their significance,

the more localized

the payload.

*

What's another 

person to us 

but a discrepancy 

in a pressure gradient

whose absence 

we miss 

like a pea 

from a mattress?

*

The message 

at the end 

is that 

closure 

is a fiction;

grief 

cannot be fixed. 

How dare 

the letters 

that make up your name

ever be 

repositioned 

to spell 

other things?

GESTALT THEORY

All minds are made up 

of near-

infinite wheels—

but only the poet's 

is filled with 

their turning.

Make no mistake, 

she's no more ardent 

than the rest; 

in fact, she disbelieves 

all she's learned

from the fire.

For her, 

the shape and flicker 

of words on a page 

speaks less 

of the march of 

indelible flames, 

and more 

the untellable sensation 

of burning. 

ABSENCE IS EVIDENCE

The world remains balanced 

on its axis 

like this: 

half the planet thinks

their belief 

in false promises 

must make them slightly 

more likely 

to be fulfilled—even if 

it's after the fact, 

ad hoc, and 

out of guilt. 

The rest must believe 

things that happen 

aren't random, 

but are fixed and legitimate 

answers 

to their questions;

no matter what, 

they must take it 

for granted

that anything real—

even their own 

absence—

is evidence 

of something 

even more essential 

which cannot be measured,

but can still get

covered up. 

BY DEGREES

If you still don't know

the difference 

between poetry 

and prose—

go run some errand;

go walk a few miles

in a midwestern winter

in a pair of wool 

socks and stiff 

waterproof boots—then 

come inside, 

undress in the dark, 

and cross, 

just once

from end to end 

the lonesome hallowed hallway

that is most 

of your apartment

one step, then the next,

on its warm bars 

of hardwood—

in nothing 

but your bare toes.

EVEN THE GURU

In the long run, even 

the guru 

loses—

says,

I wish I was 

still curious about 

what it's like 

to be me;

I wish I still was

interested 

in the beautiful blue 

of new bruises. 

When I write these things now, 

does it sound like 

I have a tendency 

to take myself 

as the exception? 

Very well then:

I admit, I stand alone, 

half-hidden 

by my breaks 

and overuses—

and I wait 

in seclusion

for all that I've lost 

to be dreamed of

in this poem. 

GOOD NEWS

A solution 

to the hitch at the end 

has been found: 

turns out, our philosophy 

was backwards and 

upside down.

Turns out, God 

was not only here, 

but embedded—

tangled in the moss 

and installed in 

all the pebbles.

In that case, 

perhaps you were not 

your thoughts after all, 

but the tiny anxious blanks 

which were fixed 

in between them. 

Go back, then, 

in pursuit of your 

newly found smallness—

your drooling 

chin and 

waning attention—

clap your chubby hands 

at the coincidences 

which spin 

clockwise,

while music chimes

above your crib.

HOLDING SPACE

Behold—

the bold future 

of 

standpoint epistemology: 

knowing 

what you know, 

and 

undismayed 

to know it. 

*

At present, the child 

is an untenable species; 

the deep hole

that guards what you think 

from who you are

is black 

and large 

and hungry enough

to gobble the sun of discovery. 

But for those 

who hold fast,

who stand curious,

who remain waiting;

the worst 

will always be a shortcut 

to epiphany.

THE WHOLE THING

The whole thing starts off 

innocent enough:

your waking up 

to yourself 

that first morning. 

Then, the endless 

imitations will start. 

First, it's the sharks 

who are chasing after.

But soon, it's: whatever—

you're the one 

chasing them.

Before long, 

you find you're 

no longer enamored

with the passing,

and the waiting, 

and all the anxious 

blanks. Jesus calls 

you boring, 

and Satan commands 

you to iterate faster

while lashing your back, 

as if this were 

life and death—

which, of course,

so far, it isn't—

until that one morning 

when the script flips,

and it is.