LULL

While they stand out 

like cracks 

in a load-bearing wall, 

those little awkward pauses 

aren't like that 

at all. 

Woven though they are

through the opaque 

morass 

of all our 

most tedious,

prefab conversations,

they seem, at best, 

like empty gaps—

but the truth is 

our hesitations 

are much sturdier 

and more integral than that;

picture the rebar 

which runs right 

through the concrete 

reinforcing the walls 

of the rooms

we were born in—

or the mortar 

holding right 

to the mausoleum's bricks 

which houses 

the remains of our 

very last communication—

every wearisome

second of it,

brick after brick,

whether we chose to build it 

alone 

or together.

LIKENESS

By the time it's 

all over, 

instead of a story, 

I hope that my life

presents more 

like a painting—

brazen and wide, 

and hung right 

at eye-level, 

so that everyone who enters 

cannot help 

but regard it—

but no one

may come 

to say for certain 

what I've done—

only to see 

the totality 

of me having done it 

all at once.

SNAG

The results 

are in—

but the conclusion 

is awkward:

hundreds of millions 

of people 

now living 

are determined 

they're all going to live 

forever.

The catch is:

eternity doesn't mean 

what it used to. 

In this overcrowded, 

overheating stockade 

of a waiting room 

in which pointing 

to a lack of evidence 

against you is a worldview,

the only definition 

of forever 

worth clinging to 

is one second longer 

than the sap 

sitting next to you.

ACCORDS

If our bodies really 

are made out of starlight,

how come our lives feel 

so slow 

and heavy? 

Everything we know 

is supposedly 

made of the stuff, 

but still

there are so many 

words to learn. 

Everything we do 

(so we're told) 

is a vector 

of spellbound elemental matter—

and yet, many

are bad actors,

and others 

have reasonably 

decent intentions 

but nevertheless fail 

to state their cases right.

In fact, 

if everything we say 

is a violent stream

of photons,

heat beams, 

unstable nuclei, 

then who's to say 

we're the same people 

we claimed 

to be when we 

went to sleep last night? 

Then again—

if even the totality 

of all we can 

capably imagine 

is starlight, then 

none of this 

is wrong, because 

everything's 

alright. 

EXCHANGE

I hereby pledge, 

every day, to make you 

fresh music 

using the only two 

means that I've got: 

those syllables of English

speech which are 

stressed, 

and those 

which are not.

I'll arrange these 

small words into 

glimmering patterns— 

based on the ones 

I first learned 

(before I knew 

how to put on a raincoat

or tie my own shoes)

by memorizing, 

then parroting back 

the glimmering

fuss of grown-ups.

But in exchange 

for all that, I want you 

to promise  

to take precious care 

of my instruments: 

the measure 

and pitch of the voice 

in your head 

and the moment-

to-moment endurance

of your breath.

PAS SEUL

An addict of experience 

always fiends 

for significance; 

she wants 

every gesture—needs it

to be special. 

If forced 

to stand outside 

the interpretive circle, 

she will struggle 

to understand 

its simplest implication;

but when driven 

to participate, 

the most byzantine ritual 

will snap to its 

grid and make 

unblemished sense. 

As if under hypnosis, 

she will dance 

the proscenium,

miming gifts of daffodils 

to imagined eye-

witnesses

and bending

to the floorboards 

with a slow somber dignity

to press her soft lips 

to the corpse 

of the past. 

For her, even the darkness 

which concludes 

the performance 

is considered to be both 

highly referential 

and important—

because, 

of course, it's 

the exact same dark 

which she felt so compelled 

to dispel 

at the start.

ACQUIESCENCE

After decades spent 

avoiding the smallest 

threat of inconvenience 

posed by rich mythologies 

that don't explain 

a thing—at least,

not nearly as well 

as they tend

to illuminate 

the dry bones 

and land mines which lie 

in the brambles

and the cold 

distant sun at the heart 

of their explainer—

it seems you've grown more lenient;

you're now ready 

to concede

that there's dignity 

in the tyrannized, 

in the role of doleful entertainer, 

and most of all,

in the drudgery 

of rolling up your sleeves 

to pitch them 

the salvation 

of which you alone were told

but now are

far too old 

to receive. 

GOLDILOCKS COMPLEX

In the future, public spaces 

will be flagged 

as too dangerous

and outlawed for showcasing 

our species 

at its worst.

Even now, it doesn't take prescience  

or a doctorate of science 

in ecology to observe 

the wretched 

way humans 

unfetter themselves 

after glancing around

a protected ground, making certain

they're alone—

then start 

draining it dry

without much concern—then 

scurry off 

before the three 

bears return.

DEADWEIGHT

Once in a while, 

I try to imagine 

a perfect spring day—

much like today—

when I am no longer 

alive to record it: 

the adolescent sun 

and the vigorous wind, 

the transcendental mix 

of clouds and 

boundless light—

and then, there's 

the kid

racing with zeal

though a field 

of matted grass, 

his face knotted up 

in a smirk of delight, 

holding on 

tight to the string 

of a kite. 

But it's no use; 

the harder I try

to picture it, the worse

it seems to get. 

For starters, the kite 

isn't really a kite; 

instead, it's a bird.

And the kid 

is not delighted; 

his face is all grimace, 

and he's running 

for his life—as if 

being forced, 

during the eye 

of some terrible storm,

to run for his life 

and hold tight to my 

burden.

 

STRATEGY

For only the space 

of a thunderstorm 

flash, 

I can grasp 

the cold, 

wet understanding: 

the difference between 

men 

who fall 

voluntarily 

like blades of rain 

from the bay doors 

of airplanes 

in deference 

to some occult 

vocation 

or pursuit 

of the most electric 

recreation

depends,

unequivocally,

on whether 

or not 

they ever plan 

on landing. 

RECIPE FOR DISASTER

Syllable 

by syllable, the dead 

become our words.

And our words, 

in the right 

environment, might 

ferment 

into our wishes.

And after millennia 

of compounding 

and sweetening underground, 

some wishes are enriched

and condense into

pure insight.

Meanwhile, the living 

are wandering 

and starving—

oblivious to the nourishment

extractable 

from tragedy;

they'd rather live

on rancid fumes

from breathless 

tales of loaves 

and fishes.

THE MIDDLE OF SOMETHING

The middle of something

can't really be measured;

the heart of any process 

has a process for a heart,

and the scientists charged 

with chopping stuff apart 

keep on finding substrates

and smaller bits and pieces. 

I'm guessing that's why 

the farther we go spinning 

away from that dark mystery 

at the crux of where we fit, 

the more dependent we grow 

on the truth of its existence: 

the irritating sand grain 

which gave the pearl its start;

that hole between the lips 

of the first person we ever kissed;

the absolute fixed dead center 

of a life we never intended to live—

wherever that was 

or is.

LENT

In mid-March, after 

turgid winter

loses its grip, 

but the land is still 

toothless 

and stubborn 

and dead, 

the small flame 

of a cardinal—all arrow-

sharp angles 

of fierce red 

and yellow—may look 

more than a little 

absurd 

from your window. 

But more perplexing still 

to your groggy, 

undead soul

are his fervid responsorial 

and its notes 

of braggadocio. 

What earthly utility 

could exist? 

you might wonder,

in his crowing like this 

so early in the morning 

about some new-

paradigm truth

long in coming, 

the nature of which 

only he was 

made to know?

TREMENDOUS REAL-WORLD APPLICATIONS

My love and I 

are like two 

synced electrons 

bound by mysterious 

quantum action

despite the infinitude 

of separating space. 

The math 

is complex,

but it happens

like this—she bends, 

and I stretch; 

she opens her mouth 

to moan during sex 

just as I take 

a huge bite 

of ham sandwich. 

Of course, we've never 

even met, 

and everything I've said is 

purely theoretical.

But I've noticed—

presumably just 

as she swaddles 

the covers around her

and takes that first drag

of a slim cigarette—

how useful 

it is to describe it 

like this, 

if to nobody else

but myself.

PUPILS

Of the hundreds 

of billions 

who have ever existed, 

few words get written 

only for you.

It sounds lonely, 

but the consequences 

of those that do

are both huge 

and automatic—

firstly: you 

transcend "you" 

and transform

into a vestibule; 

second: the transmitter 

falls pitiably in love—

not with you

but the holes 

of your pupils 

which received, 

then contained, 

then imputed his letters. 

From then on, whenever 

your companionless soul 

tarries out  

past the boundaries 

of its atoms 

in longing for its goal,

understanding is the gravity 

which tempts it gently 

back to Earth, 

and maybe this world 

still feels small

after all. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS

Mercurial doctrine 

of raw early spring:

dingy sparrows flitting 

from dead lilac 

to dead lilac,

until every last one of them 

lands a spot 

to preen and sing,

until—momentarily,

everyone fits 

with everything.

AUTHORIAL INTENT

Who's to say, truly,

what you should 

or shouldn't do? 

Wait just a minute;

before you give your answer, 

stand up and fashion 

a small cup

from your words—

then brew 

a little bit 

of hot coffee up 

and pour it straight in there, 

with all the rough certitude 

of an omniscient, 

omnipotent, 

omnibenevolent narrator, 

taking careful notice

of what happens 

to your shoes.

Now: tell 

your audience—

who makes the rules?

VESSEL

A short poem 

is not something 

anyone owns; 

it's more like 

the decorative box 

it might come in.

If you want, you can 

put something in it 

that you love— 

or perhaps 

feel anxious about 

finally being rid of—

then step back, 

maybe snap 

a quick photograph, 

just to see 

how it looks.

INDECIPHERABLE CAUSE

Does a poet not

remain a poet 

even when 

they are 

restless sleeping—

worlds apart 

from any corpus 

of notoriety, 

let alone minutiae 

of rhyme schemes 

and feet—

even before 

the raw seed 

of The Idea

first perforates,

then warms in the loam 

of their dream?

For even then, 

in that darkness 

before starlight 

where no words exist, 

when nothing 

has been said, 

is not a distinct 

kind of fraught, 

fecund emptiness—

some heartrending 

insignificance—

made perfect-

ly manifest?

ONLY

Last night 

I dreamt 

I fed my head 

willingly 

to the black 

mouth of a well—

and then I 

yelled something 

elemental 

into that strong 

empty cavern 

of stone, 

desperate to know

the counsel

of the echo: 

time is not 

transactional, 

it bellowed;

only 

this life 

matters.

THE SHIP

These days, 

everyone you pass 

in the streets 

looks queasy.

In every compass- and rudder-

less city, 

it seems 

they have their reasons: 

the months

of doubt and deceit 

have been rough seas,

and too much 

bad medicine 

scored with a handshake 

has been swallowed

too fast behind 

back-alley addresses.

And yet, from the TV screens 

none will confess 

that the tempest 

has exacted

the ultimate cost

and the brightest and best 

will maintain 

until death

that the ship can't be sinking 

because the violins 

aren't playing yet,

and all of the rats 

are still 

here among us.

MANIFEST

At the center 

of how 

you always 

try to pin things 

down 

is a nucleus 

made out of 

reasons why 

you mostly succeed 

in screwing them up.

Imagine 

the scalded 

cauldron of your grief 

without that name

you gave it; 

picture delineating 

the difference 

between 

professional 

and amateur nobodies;

close your eyes 

and see if you 

can imitate

that legible melody 

your soul would sing 

without 

all the notes 

it doesn't need.

STICKS AND STONES

Words 

on mere air—what 

could be frailer? 

But then,

just to hold on 

to a thought 

such as this one 

might be 

proof of their 

existence. 

Maybe, then, 

belief

says more 

than it 

means to; 

maybe prayers

become real 

the way 

our children's

sins become our penance—

the way 

one sentence 

carelessly tossed

in the wind 

by another

can transform 

into our jail.