ALL THE TIME

Everything 

about each moment 

you could even 

notice:

tough to list without 

forever—

isn't that 

enough? 

DESPERATE MEASURES

Felt like, for 

a while there, every day, 

we could rely 

on such cheap 

and plentiful 

wooden reminders: 

one plus one 

is equal to two; 

fair and fowl 

always cancel 

each other. But 

when the desperate 

times hit, the first 

orders we got were 

to ratchet-up 

the abstract, 

restrict access 

to the rational.

Overnight, belts 

grew tighter, skins 

thinner, blood redder; 

while, outside 

in the cold, all the poor 

devils' kids 

had only dry sticks 

to learn basic 

addition with. 

And to make 

matters worse: 

stick-plus-stick 

wasn't always 

two sticks; 

for one or two 

minds, starved and 

crammed into a corner,

stick-plus-stick 

equalled fire. 

GOAL SETTING

How can you ever hope 

to get clear 

on what you want

when even the birds 

in the yard

outside your window 

don't seem to know 

what they're after? 

Though their songs 

sound sincere, 

they're naive 

enough to ask for 

more and more worms 

on the lawn 

from a rainstorm 

under neverending 

skies full of bright 

sunny weather.

DUE TO CIRCUMSTANCES BEYOND MY CONTROL

After some years 

disavowing my failures,

I have come to believe 

there is beauty 

in futility— 

mostly because 

it makes the rough going 

easier. 

If I fail to describe 

the formal 

pleasure of a flower, 

or the zest 

of arcing birds, 

or the secret 

things I've heard 

the treetops whispering

as the feeble end of summer 

fell asleep 

on autumn's shoulder, 

is truth 

not reaped from the lack 

of result?

If I should take on 

the responsibilities of god

and find each moment 

swamped with all 

the labors I most hate,

have I not found 

my own heaven 

in passivity?

At last, won't I 

love the patchy 

worlds I create?

FIRST SHIVER

All across most 

of the northern hemisphere, 

dead leaves 

start to fall near the end 

of September, 

exerting, as they land 

on the cooling 

earth around here, 

a certain quiet, 

even pressure, 

a distinct but insinuated 

coercion 

of that solitude—

of that placid desolation 

and patient 

loneliness ahead—

that no man or woman 

who walks out 

amid the scene 

can realize—

or realistically 

could ever hope 

to bear to—  

how exquisitely 

but tenuously 

all the rest 

just felt it too. 

THE SLIGHTNESS

For most of your life, 

you think you're hip 

to what you're listening to—

then, one day, 

it isn't 

the music, 

but the silence 

that falls at the end 

of it all 

which inflicts on you

the goosebumps of something 

to confront: 

that absence 

which feels so 

audaciously exposed 

but which has, 

in fact, been adroitly 

composed by 

the full blast 

of all that has 

not come to pass—

by the slightness

of every last 

moment in your life 

when you didn't know 

what you could do 

or say next

playing back at 

full volume,

all at once.

AVAILABILITY BIAS

Ever notice—

the implications 

of certain things persist,

while the purport 

of others is considerably 

diminished?

With each new 

dead-ringer for Earth 

they discover, 

public interest 

in "the scientific" 

grows less 

and less certain; 

or you can't forget 

the favorite actor 

of the juvenile bastard  

who last 

broke your heart,

but you couldn't name 

the eye color 

of the woman who 

named you and 

fed you for years.

But of course, this is 

just the only way 

for significance 

to persist, and yet still 

remain endurable:

if you do not 

support it, it just 

disappears.

LOOSE ENDS

Look around 

the park grounds 

near the end 

of any September—

the pale leaves 

all look similar 

and utterly 

replaceable 

once they've fallen 

from their 

homes in the limbs;

they cannot wonder 

how they got here, 

and there is no answer 

to the question "what for?"

But what about you—

the pale, foolish person

who's still holding on 

to the arms 

that once sustained him—

do you still think 

you'll use your hunger 

before your 

hunger uses you?

Is that separation 

looming, after which 

you won't 

exist? And if so, 

aren't there probably 

one or two 

things around here which 

you still need 

to do? 

UNPROVEN

Somewhere 

on Earth, in a garden 

near a path, 

the freckles 

which spangle the inside- 

petals of a lily 

might correspond 

exactly 

to the positions 

of stars in a 

distant galaxy 

observed  

before dawn

on the half-frozen ocean 

by a desperate crew

of Atlantic explorers 

as a celestial highway 

guiding them home.

Even more 

impressively, though

no one now living 

will ever make 

the discovery,

and this hallowed, 

symmetrical code 

of the universe 

will shrivel 

and die 

when the first 

cold wind blows.

SECRETS

In the soup-

thick fog 

of early morning, 

the "next right thing"

might collide

with opportunity;

a cool, wet crow 

might swoop down

from a lamppost 

to make a poem 

of the worms 

she extracts 

without care

from the sopping 

ground below;

motions might 

well be the cause 

of themselves

and consequence 

might be their 

only purpose. 

In a world 

where reality 

looks so uncouth, 

signification 

might be ripe 

for the taking,

and there's 

nothing wrong 

with stealing it all

when nothing 

outside of ourselves 

belongs.

WITH ALL DUE RESPECT TO KEATS,

sometimes this 

is how it goes: 

although 

you do not need 

to know, 

you look again 

at the clock 

on the wall 

to confirm 

that it wears the same face 

of disfigurement 

and genuine 

torment it wore 

just before; or, 

perhaps because 

you can't resist 

you triple-

check the distance 

between 

derelict here and 

unrealized there 

and find 

that its path appears 

just as perilous, 

uncivilized, 

and austere as both 

places put together.

And that's 

when it hits you 

right between the eyes 

that the truth 

of each moment 

is so savage 

and entire 

that even if it 

throttles you 

to near-exhilaration, 

you could never 

mistake it for beautiful—

not even by the poetry-

in-motion 

of a long shot.

NEW PHASE

A touch blander, perhaps, 

than the Christians' slender 

gilded crosses, 

but I tend to feel best 

that mix of agony 

and grandeur 

when I'm biting my lip 

and passing beneath 

the yellowing branches 

of a primeval tulip poplar

in the barely-there 

newness 

of midwestern autumn—

feeling so small, 

and yet heavy 

for my size, 

and always so 

piecemeal-divided by 

the fractal shadows cast 

across my body

on the underside 

of this tall, 

stoic being that's so 

willing to die—

at least 

for a little while—

in order to outlive 

and outgrow 

us all.

PARABLE

I often stay up late,

and I always 

keep a light on—like some 

pushover dad 

for his prodigal son—

waiting in distress 

for the fleeting return 

of my wanton, 

self-willed 

satisfaction. 

And the second I catch it 

staggering back:

I'm out there 

over-zealously slitting 

the fat throats 

of calves 

and chainsawing possessions 

and bank accounts in half. 

But no matter how 

gently I bleat 

my appeasements, 

or tickle 

its feet, 

or sprinkle gold leaf 

on every offered appetizer, 

the last thing I see 

at the end 

of the night

is the apathetic light 

from the small, 

glowing cherry 

of the Cuban cigar 

it was happy 

to lift from me 

fading, like the plot 

of a dream, as it 

leaves.

THE DIZZINESS OF FREEDOM

Happiness is 

not what our 

ancestors thought 

the moment 

they first slithered 

up from the dross; 

the abandon, and 

the leeway 

and facility they sought 

could not be 

bought with grit, but demanded 

certainty as the cost. 

Soon, we were free

to the extent 

that we were lost: 

leaping—

without even 

the savior faire to look 

as we stuck 

each slimy landing—

from rock, 

to rock, to rock. 

To this day, with each random

pivot we manage 

our fish brains still tingle 

and reel with 

the delight 

of having skirted certain 

death and damage—but never 

the same way twice.

FIRST THOUGHT, BEST THOUGHT

Basically without fail,

every single morning, 

through thick gunmetal 

clouds of your own 

unknowing

which billow 

like mad past the mountains 

of your shoulders, 

that first white-electric hot 

forked tongue 

of insight

leaps forth

to flash its arcane,

pliant pith 

and sets something 

thundering 

deep in your body; 

and then: every rogue 

wind blast 

and each zigzagging 

torrent of rain blades 

that follows 

are just 

the patterned mess

of words 

that precipitate 

as you bend 

toward a notebook 

and attempt

to express it.

THE ARRANGEMENT

In this particular 

paraphrase 

of the narrative, 

just about 

all of the time 

there are days—grave, 

or engrossing, 

or just 

frivolous days—

when no circuits 

are tripped 

by that surge of imperatives, 

and I 

have absolutely 

nothing to say.

Whenever this 

happens, I just sit

for a moment 

and sift through stray 

words I find caught 

beneath my eyelids—

and arrange them 

into reiterative 

shapes 

too simple, 

too insistent, and too 

true for explanation. 

And whether or not 

the arrangement

is great, I'll share 

what I've made in the dark 

with you anyway—

because just that kind 

of blind exchange,

to me, at least,

 is poetry.

COMEDOWN

We were told 

going into this 

that Eden sank to grief,

that going to seed 

is inevitable, since 

evergreen is 

rare as gold—

but still

we like to think 

our ideas will last,

that this human fruition 

will pass 

through maturation  

without its succumbing 

to rot, heaviness, 

and stink

when even the genius 

of dawn 

is arrested

every single morning, 

in thirty minutes 

or less; 

and the charge 

isn't arrogance, 

or even 

significance—

but merely an existence 

sailing past its 

expiration.

TABLEAU

When I write, it's like 

I can sense 

without seeing 

my shadow 

in here with me—

not helping, but simply 

idly sipping coffee 

in a spare Ikea 

kitchen chair and 

staring our the window

while I sit across 

the table and winnow, 

by curving lines of light, 

the weapons he uses 

to hold me accountable 

and thrust my ego 

flush against the wall. 

I know this because 

I can feel his presence—

but only as 

that warm dark absence 

that prods imaginations 

to attend to concealed things

and which makes, 

through his unreal-

yet-substantive scrim 

this illumination of my 

waking thoughts' 

strangest inversions possible.

AD WORDS

When I see a new billboard

broadly proclaim

its succoring 

claim: that Beauty 

is everywhere—

part of me can't help 

but think 

it's a shame 

to normalize exhilaration 

simply by naming it. 

Do we not plot to deny 

the uniqueness 

that lives 

(for dirt-cheap) 

inside of ubiquity 

with each sly 

caprice we command 

to creep out 

from beneath every 

creased-up corner 

of the obvious? 

Is it thoughtless 

or insidious 

to universalize 

the sublime? 

They might as well 

try next to advertise 

the sky.

PARITY

How strange it is
to realize
we're familiar

with the feeling we get
in the tips
of our fingers

just before it
starts to rain.

How comfortably blasé 

as we peer 

from a window

to watch as a few more

ominous clouds 

approach; 

how normal it is 

for our prim little corner 

of the world 

to go intermittently dark 

and askew;

and how amenable 

we can be 

to disliking 

what we're seeing 

when we deem it coherent

with our poor, 

tortured bodies: 

these consistently abused 

but tenacious lands

within us

which periodically 

get soaked, and then 

dried off a little, 

but will never be offered

the chance 

to start new.

 

PROXY POEM

The poem I just deleted 

before I cobbled this one

was constructed 

like the elegant folds 

of a rose—

complex in all its frailties, 

perfumed with allusions, 

and yet, unmistakably 

simple and direct 

as its scent 

on the wind 

to get.

But now that its rash 

demolition is finished, 

you'll have to agree

that what's left

is much better, 

since, even though 

the substandard 

words here presented

express no sterling 

answers to your 

metaphysical questions, 

the sheer availability 

of extraneous information 

somehow short-circuits 

the demand

for counterfactuals 

and makes our 

sad lots 

feel superior.