POETRY: A USER'S GUIDE

In truth, I do not 

even know 

what it means—

much less

how to make it.

It's just something 

you wake up and 

find yourself always 

in the middle 

of have been doing 

already. 

But it's a lot 

less like speaking 

than like

singing in your sleep: 

in rhythms 

with no histories

and melodies 

left suspended;

and without that

grammatical net 

of guarantees—

and of course, 

on an instrument 

which is only as valuable 

as its capacity 

to be left, every night, 

unattended.

AT YEAR'S END

At the terrible mercy of so much 

austerity, everything manmade 

collapses—or else 

hastily crouches to 

simplify itself, like some 

ungainly fraction. 

No more jingling sleigh bells

or mottled Appaloosas—only 

the simultaneous contraction 

of all the quiet, snowy roads

and all points of time's circle joining 

and compacting. 

Even the dazzling smokewhite 

of daybreak and the shimmer of yellow-lit,

 late evening windows 

are, here at another 

bleary year's end, just as remarkable 

as they are incidental. And yet, 

what remarkable freedom 

must exist 

to be reached 

now that all time and place

and every habitual 

path we might take

have just been so forcibly

but mercifully 

erased? 

MORE OR LESS

From the far-off 

gleam of jet planes

maneuvering around 

the snarling jigsaw 

of towers downtown,

to waking dream 

of each singular flake 

of fat December snow 

landing and mercifully 

blotting out the details  

on row after row 

of old granite headstones—

everywhere you look,

things keep proceeding 

on their own—as if

the music 

which first inspired 

the dance of our lives 

was concluded 

by the orchestra 

quite some time ago,

but someone out there 

vaguely still remembers 

how the words went: 

there's nothing 

you can say;

and nothing's 

out of bounds;

and nothing 

ever has to

be a certain way.

THE TIME BEING

Perhaps 

the past 

is a strike-anywhere 

matchstick 

crammed inside its 

stiff little box. 

And 

the future is 

pure sandpaper—

or the grainy 

brick mortar 

just waiting 

to annihilate it.

And you—you're 

the addict, 

with his sulfur-

tinged nostrils and

nicotine fingers 

who delights 

at how quick 

and how hot 

and spectacularly 

the two come together  

to engender 

the fire 

which you jones

to take hold of 

and hold deep 

inside you 

before setting 

loose to get 

lost in the world—

every time 

anything 

happens 

at all.

IF YOU WANT TO KNOW THE TRUTH

You should never say grace 

for the things 

you've been given, 

but instead, pray to 

all of those things 

for their grace;

and resist the urge to speak 

or to write of your freedom, 

lest you risk describing, 

through negation, the depths 

of another's isolation. 

But the most important 

move you must make, 

if you really want 

to know the truth, 

is never to stroll 

the perimeter of your life 

in order to fathom its shape;

but instead,

to trace the outline 

of that faint apprehension 

that the shape of this life

is not the only one 

it can take.

CHRISTMAS STAR

Of all of the gifts 

man has ever

been given, 

this was, unquestionably, 

the greatest 

and the cruelest,

as it seemed, 

most perversely, 

to do the most good 

in curing the sicknesses 

which had heretofore 

driven him: 

his belief 

that there is any such thing 

as true knowledge, 

instead of that

black sea of 

fascinating glimmers;

and his addiction 

to confusion which impersonates 

complexity—

both of which were easily 

and unsympathetically 

subsumed

into that baffling 

pool of immutable 

simplicity 

which the shepherds 

called

night sky.

 

VEDANTA FOR SKEPTICS

To say it
out loud, it may
sound a bit odd,

but here in
The West, we don't
really disagree

with an old Hindu premise
that everyone
is God. It's just—

we count our chickens
before they
can squawk,

and we like
to proceed in a single-
file line;

so we keep off 

our knees until
something bad happens,

and we only let one
dead man walk
at a time.

MIRAGE

Have you ever noticed how 

that confidence 

which is wrought 

by our greed 

for sanguineness

and our future-expectation 

to live out

our aspirations 

is so alluring 

and diffuse 

as to be 

downright useless? 

How did we ever become 

so obsessed 

with scanning the distance 

through short lengths 

of pipe 

for some rose-colored bright side 

faint horizons might suggest

that we lost all sight 

of the much more 

pressing mess 

into which had so absent-

mindedly stepped 

and are up to our shins in 

right here 

in the present? 

ON THE CONTRARY

Putting ice on bare skin 

is a pretty neat trick:

after just a few seconds, 

the exposed flesh 

turns pink—

but interestingly, 

this is actually because 

it's gotten hotter; 

your heart has responded 

to this insolent stressor 

by beating just a bit harder 

to send lots

of fresh blood there. 

If only the same 

dynamic were in play 

with regards to you 

and me. 

Just think 

where we'd be

if my coldness 

drew you in,

if that grimness and rigidity 

had attracted your heat.

MORE THAN YOU BARGAINED FOR

Humor in a poem

is a strange

midnight gift 

bestowed 

by an arcane 

blue fairy.

What you sought 

above all in your

sleepless desperation 

will conjure, 

at first, such a 

pleasant sensation

of waltzing down

the lines delighted, light 

as air, and laughing—

but sooner or later, 

all parties come

to a close; you must 

haul this witch's gaudy gift 

home to the slum 

where you live—

and that's 

when it suddenly

turns scary. 

SHAKY PREMISE

What if it's 

our uneasy, smoldering 

dreams  

which leak and rise

into the night 

like curlicues of smoke

from some 

phantasmic cigarette 

that repopulate anew 

the great hanging archive  

which we all know, 

upon rising, to call 

the veil of sky? 

What then, is the difference

in regretting a thing

or desiring it?

Would we still long 

to relive the quaint 

feeling of a kiss,

or clumsily desire 

fewer screams than laughter?

If it's dark, fretful nights 

that engender 

the day, 

what on earth's the use in 

being afraid?

 

DIAGNOSIS DEFERRED

What is this 

great energy that's buried

deep inside us 

which we struggle

all our lives 

not to clear, but 

unencumber? 

Is it not

that light 

by which we might 

love one another  

so much 

that it's painful-

ly counterproductive?—

and the heat 

of we, the living 

who have looked upon 

the dying 

yet have managed 

to turn back toward the life 

of this world, 

daunted but preternaturally 

alert forever after

to how greatly 

this weight and its 

shadow only serve to 

explicate 

the sky?

PLUCK

When they tell you 

there's nothing 

more you can do;

when they take you out 

into the hall 

just to sit you back down 

and say

all is lost;

when you find 

you've inherited only 

the goneness, 

the shape of oblivion, 

the complete lack 

of trust,

and that everything 

and everyone you'd thought of 

as precious 

will wind up 

as ashes, 

as sediment, 

as dust—that's when

it is best 

not to wince 

or raise your voice 

in protest. 

You must keep still 

in order to 

gather all your strength

and focus on the clarion 

sound of your voice 

as you hear it say, 

incredibly: Okay. So, 

what's next?

COUNTERMEASURE

There's no loss 

like the bloodless, 

perennial 

remembrance 

of the lost—if only 

because 

there is no loss 

except it. 

You can try to surmount it

or get around it 

all you want, but 

in order to receive it, 

you will have to

open up—

and I don't mean

"empty out." 

I mean: pollute the world

with talk. 

Speak without thinking;

say all 

the wrong things; 

speak to keep 

your lungs breathing 

and the frozen air 

warmed up;

speak til your words 

span the black, 

barren gulf 

which hazards to sequester

all of you from

all of us.

CONCESSIONS

Body, I know you 

don't see me for 

who I am half 

the time—and we 

grew up together, so 

we argue about everything. 

But there's so long to go 

from the middle 

to the end, and you

keep turning up, 

and that's all 

that I've got. So 

I'll take you as far 

as you're able to go

if you laugh 

and my jokes, and I'll 

listen to you sing.

It's not a lot, but it's 

something—like feeling 

lonely when you're 

really not.

AD-LIBBING

Weird how they say—

it's not until 

your soul is full 

that it's finally light 

enough to fly 

and dance away

all the torment 

and dolor 

which you have amassed

in this

infamous life, 

often at the whim or 

displeasure 

of others—only 

this time, 

when it dances, it 

dances alone, 

because it's been 

blamed for so long, it's no 

longer ashamed, 

and it's finally 

racked up enough practice 

and poise 

that it isn't afraid 

to improvise.

NEW GRIEF

Though this pain which 

now blooms like a 

purplish bruise 

is both 

indescribably yours 

and new, 

rest assured 

that the black mouth of woe 

from which it sprung 

is everyone's

to plumb, and is

terribly old—for none

are loved more 

than those lost 

to our sight, and 

no truth bites

the living quite 

like: everything dies.

THE PACKAGE INSERT

When you pass 

by another, it's 

probably best 

to avert your eyes 

or keep them 

downcast—

that way, 

you'll miss the slight 

tremble of presence 

which you'd be 

almost certain 

to glimpse there—

and which might, 

in turn, fill you 

with an urge to possess  

all of that clemency, 

love, and 

benevolence 

you have been 

heretofore 

highly successful

and almost 

content to be 

living without.

A THING BEGUN

The burden of grief
would be easier 

to bear, I think

if only it were a little more 

exhaustive 

in its slaughter;

if the knife blade 

were longer 

and a little bit sharper,

then the agony would be briefer

and the torture

might be over. 

But alas, 

as it stands, it's just

too incomplete; 

there are lapses 

where we sometimes sing

from hymnals in the evenings, 

or find ourselves undone 

by some small 

accomplishment hard-won, 

or loose track of the strain 

which was placed 

on our shoulders 

while we're marched 

through the detours 

of loveliness and laughter.

REVOCABLY YOURS

When mornings 

start wavering 

out of existence, 

not yet gone, 

but long since 

in going, 

why do I

keep my mind fixed 

on their glimmering 

as a watch stopped dead 

at set 6am—contemptuous 

of noon? 

Would I starve in the wilderness  

to spare the strange, wonderful

plumage of its birds?  

Will I try to impose 

such a static thing as 

beauty 

on the aggressive-

ly protean

soul of this world?

SLOW CLAP

Too coolly, the hours 

drift past while you cogitate, 

inaudible, colorless, 

and unable to be named.

The sound of nobody's voice 

ignites jealousy 

as you talk,

like a stone might, 

to the gravity of the situation: 

How the hell did any of us 

get to essence 

from before?

Was there light 

before breath? Your heart fights

to remember. 

Or is no one 

led back home 

by the slow claps and low talk 

which they heap on 

fallen heroes 

as they're cast into 

the after?

THRENODY

Stone-blind, we carried you 

past the boundaries 

of our apprehending,  

trying, still, to recognize 

some sense 

in the invisible.

Oath-deaf, 

we dug tunnels for dark hours 

under sympathy, 

emptying our heads

of its ringing 

significance 

and filling them 

instead with the glory 

of its grief.

Then, mutely, we agreed—

there are still songs 

left to be written, but we 

won't know how they'll 

go until we catch 

our children singing.