AUTUMN POEM

The invisible wind

wends through yellowing 

leaves again, stirring 

dim memories, which you 

may or may not 

have lived-through. 

But it's the sunset 

pall of quiet, and attendant 

strange equivalence 

of motion to stillness 

which really seem

to thrill you.

From here, eternity 

seems to meander 

out past red horizons 

in either direction, 

while the smells 

and the textures 

of creatures you're 

not sure you knew

(though you seemed to)

rush wildly through 

your core on their way 

toward oblivion.

And of course, you're 

neither willing 

nor able to explain 

the peace that such 

an onrush of ephemeral 

truth can give you, 

for you've stood here 

and breathed this air

often enough before 

to know that the bliss 

of remembrance is

its solitude.  

GREAT DEPRESSION

For a short, blissful while 

in our lives, 

we are able 

to rely upon 

a limitless supply

of inspiration; 

from our bountiful 

dreams, we pluck

copious reminders 

that one plus one 

is not always 

two, 

and that fair and fowl 

sometimes don't 

cancel out each other. 

But sooner or later, 

the hard times 

must hit, 

and we're ordered 

to ration and restrict 

away the abstract. 

Little by little, 

our belts 

grow tighter, 

our skins, red 

and thinner, 

and our vision, 

dimmed and tired—

until, at last, 

all we're left with 

is the discourse

of arithmetic—

an accounting 

of our worth 

using dry, 

brittle sticks. 

Only now, 

stick plus stick 

seems to always yield 

two sticks—

whereas back 

when we could dream,

stick plus stick 

might mean

fire.

RATIONALE

Lately, I am fine 

with being provoked  

into a song—

solitary as a mollusk, 

I might require 

a disturbance; 

I long, perhaps, 

for intrusion—

something wrong, 

over which 

merely palliative 

sentiments may swarm 

 

and accrete 

their invaluable nacre 

of brilliance—

some pretty pearl 

of lyric that I never 

meant to form. 

 

RELIANCE

For some things, 

a middle

may not exist.

The center 

of a universe 

cannot be measured; 

the heart of a process 

has a process 

for a heart, 

and no matter how hard 

you click "zoom in" 

and "enhance,"

all you see are 

smaller 

and smaller 

strands of self-

similar actions.

Therefore, 

rather than declare 

with any kind 

of certainty, 

I'd much rather 

speculate often

and wildly 

that the farther out 

from innocence I seem 

to spin, 

the more I must

give in to some 

tiny grain of mystery—

some talisman 

of confidence 

bounded by its absence, 

like the gaps

between lips in 

true love's first kiss—

my exact but 

mysterious 

center of mass, 

wherever that

is, or whoever 

it was.

IMMOLATION

The reason 

it's always 

so scarce 

and at a premium 

is that Truth (with 

a capital T) 

always hits 

like this: 

first, there's 

a burst—a young 

spark 

of fascination—

followed by 

the pubescent flair 

of self-

righteous ardor

and its blush

of fascination—

after which, 

the giddy flame 

of advancement starts 

to wildly dance,

and then spread,

and ignite,

incinerate,

and vaporize 

not only 

Itself, but the whole 

observation deck 

too badly 

for the singed 

and now-

traumatized victim

to willingly 

(or otherwise)

identify. 

POTENTIALITY

There is no reason 

to worry, I am told—

no need 

to feel shame 

or guilt after all, since

every time we 

bulldoze over 

something that was beautiful, 

we know 

that something useful 

is bound to be created—

a need in the abstract 

is concretely filled. 

And honestly, 

it's a sentiment with which

I'm prone to resonate, 

as I've known

the same premise to be true 

in reverse:

I have grieved 

for every second 

which I haven't spent 

in daydreams,

since I've sensed 

that something 

voiceless 

but equally 

magnificent 

has probably just been 

staunched and stripped 

of every bit of lifeblood, 

flattened and paved-

over—too jovially  

killed. 

TO REVERIE

All our lives, we're 

commanded: 

listen 

well, read 

close, and pay 

attention;

recitation 

of creeds and 

ringing 

of bells is 

tantamount 

to consecration. 

But then, 

one day, 

we may slump 

in the pew—

and, nodding-

off, dream 

our revelation:

that through the raw 

ecstasy 

of awe 

and of terror 

may sluice 

rarer knowledge 

of the vulgar

and the workaday; 

through gaps 

in the soothing, 

child-like echolalia 

of the mass, 

may pour forth 

both the infinite river 

and infinitesimal 

vessel of salvation.

Now, 

whether the next 

great abyss 

we fall into

be our hell 

or our heaven—

who really cares? 

As long as it 

takes us somewhere 

new.

MATURITY

In the weakening 

light, as summer turns 

to autumn, 

it gets harder 

to find what is right—

what is good. 

Thankfully, from each 

slight edge, in

towards the heart, 

all that is pure 

and alive starts 

to blur

and flush bright 

with blushes of well-

deserved death

 

to make it 

more perfectly 

well understood.

DECLENSION

What in the world 

are these black, 

grotesque creatures—

these odd gargoyle 

statues we're all 

turning into? 

Which ashen, 

apocalypse-

raided town square 

(and from where) 

do we slouch toward? 

After birth, 

every woman 

and man seems 

to fade, 

little by

little, to some 

rumpled up object,

or clubfooted 

symbol, or hoarse-

whispered proverb.

Unlike what we'd 

heard, things do not

fall apart; 

instead, they just 

harden, contract, 

and conserve—until 

all our lives 

are worth is their lines, 

curves, and serifs,

and everyone 

on Earth who has ever 

loved and laughed—

from Abraham 

and Sarah, down to 

Peaches and Herb—

sooner or later—

gets collapsed  

into a word.

RECITAL

Perhaps, the world has 

had enough 

big thinkers—

great minds who 

confine their correctness 

to paper. 

What it lacks 

are choreographers

whose largest ideas 

of rightness 

or truth 

must be contoured 

to fit the cramped beauty 

of space

like a pair of lace 

slippers in their slight

cardboard box—

whose only escape 

from the toxified actual 

is regimentation 

of the bottomless possible—

who communicate

their gospels in 

ordinal numbers, 

since they know 

that all letters are 

profligate ciphers 

which leave 

not enough (or 

too many) rooms 

for error.

ODE

From the atom 

to the galaxy, 

this world 

has its form, 

and form

in itself is more 

than pleasing, 

as we, too, 

have been formed 

to rejoice in structure.

To come upon 

the merest thing—

among boxelders, 

the web 

of a spider 

in early morning, swirled 

with droplets of water—

I am only guessing, 

yet somehow I know 

the commotion 

that startles my self

as I thrill 

in all perfect disproportion 

to my interest 

in naming

or possessing 

a moment 

which cannot be 

created, 

but nonetheless 

must be 

participated in.

And the morpheme 

for all this, 

base though it is, 

has got to be beauty—

not mere prettiness;

that is to say: 

an instant, perfect 

in its own way,

until that instant 

vanishes.

HARDNESS IS REWARDED BY TIME

Which is why I 

don't so much 

change 

as oscillate—

adamant 

but pain-

fully slowly,

as the tide 

makes basalt shine, 

as the moon 

moves through its phases.

If only 

any one 

of you could 

also bear 

to move this slowly—

then, at last, 

you'd be able to 

see me, 

comfort me, 

sing 

my intractable praises.

TIGER BY THE TAIL

So many nights, I 

can't fight 

the feeling—

the feeling that 

feelings might be 

something I'm only 

taking 

or leaving. 

Why, for the life 

of me, I can't quite seem 

to screen 

this incoming 

transmission of cavalcading 

drives 

and desires for their 

use cases, 

 

or (at least) reasons 

is a mystery;

the only thing 

I'm willing to clearly 

perceive is 

the awareness 

of suspicions—

suspicions which hit 

me precisely 

as needles—

hot threads 

of affection, disinterest,

and hate,

 

impulses borne 

on electrical signals 

from an engine 

in my body 

which is 

made 

out of light.

INDIVIDUAL COUNSELING

After all of the vehement 

work I've done 

to steer 

well away from the 

hazards inside, 

I've begun to feel 

I'm on a video call 

with the business-

like man 

in the mirror. 

It's the way everything 

he displays to me

looks exactly 

the same as it 

ought to, only 

backwards. 

And always, 

how there's 

weird bits 

of distortion

and delay 

between 

every kind 

word that I think 

I am speaking—

and all that I 

hear myself say.

CUCUMBER, COOL AS A

All of my life, I've 

made things 

for no occasion, 

with zero designs

on their practical 

use. You might think 

that such idle ideation 

sounds perverse—

that no stanza 

or melody could 

ever move the Earth, 

but could only hope 

to subtly shift 

a few odd friends' 

faintest perceptions of it. 

But as usual, as I 

move to conclude 

this short verse, 

I refuse to engage 

with the 

actionable question 

of whether or 

not any meaningful 

distinction 

could even be 

said to exist 

between the two. 

MELANCHOLIA

Alone and, so 

I think, unseen 

on another gray

and derelict street,

I suddenly sense 

my body gently 

swaying in the 

humid breeze

like an insect, trapped 

in invisibly intricate 

webs of a sticky,

avaricious city—

its forgotten nooks 

and disdained diagonals 

all stealthily criss-

crossing over and under 

as I faithlessly wait

in its centerless center 

for someone or something 

so hungry but subtle

to return home and claim 

what warm core still persists

inside of this petrified 

shell as its own.

BORDERLINE

Midwest September 

arrives

 

as hot flies, 

swarming 

to cannibalize 

the carcasses of grayed cicadas.

The bleached earth 

still thrums 

with insouciant 

warmth; the sky remains 

a bucolic lake—

it's just some slight 

attribute 

of light which has changed

 

from breathtaking-

ly predictable 

to predictably 

unstable.

TESTAMENT

When I'm dead, 

in lieu 

of flowers, please 

just stop

and consider 

how, right now, 

ageless light 

from the edge 

of the visible universe—

that is:

weightless wave-

particles, for whom it's 

always now—

are somehow

still irrevocably 

on their way "here"

through the cold 

endless vacuum 

of indifference 

that's "there." 

And yet, 

still, every day, 

how distracted 

I remained 

(and if you're still 

skimming this, clearly

so did you)

by words 

just like these, 

which, after all,

were just ads 

for things

which I knew

but could never

admit—and 

for feelings

I never even dreamed 

I had.

PLAINSONG

You don't understand 

any of it, but 

all you need 

to know 

is the brute fact 

of voices 

rolling higher  

and faster 

toward this ever-

crescendoing 

shore of 

low slowness—

until at last,

they crash, and then 

burst, and stream 

farther 

and farther 

apart, as 

your grasp 

of the concept

of divergence 

itself starts 

to melt 

and to merge 

into one self-

contained and yet 

boundary-less 

object: 

a firework, 

spidering 

out through 

a black sky 

and clinging 

to the spacious, 

sacred emptiness 

of night 

which exists 

beneath the lid 

of the single 

closed eye 

which sleeps 

inside the wise 

mind of every 

unborn child.

THE GAMBLER

Nature herself 

must sit back 

in stunned wonder 

at the matchless 

abundance of her own 

careless laughter,

for what, then, 

is each cankered 

stem, denuded flower, 

and growling, 

distended stomach 

that's out there

but a perfect-

pitch, no-expense-

spared advertisement 

for the gambler 

in her who feels

most free to be 

both cocksure 

and so very 

daredevil-aimless—

free 

as an unswerving 

driver playing chicken,

as a giddily-

obscure jazz 

musician might be—

for how much 

security must she 

lust to forsake 

in order to keep 

fumbling, yet feeling 

the full breadth  

of all that abandon 

as creativity, 

as freedom?

ONE FOR THE PRODUCERS

There's really 

no such thing as a mother-

to-be. For truly

each unruly curve 

in her light-

ly mussed hair, 

and every hard-earned 

crease in her rightly 

rumpled shirt

would seem to create 

its own brief, 

arcane world—

each one distinctly 

present, and yet starkly

inaccessible; 

each one imperceptible, 

and yet obvious, 

gargantuan. 

And all of these artful, 

furtive planets, spinning away 

as she bustles on past,

are crying all at once, 

with the poise 

of a chorus 

(in a voice I can't 

name, but can 

still hear, no question)

in their desperate, 

definite, and 

paralyzing need of her 

ceaseless 

and singular

protection.

PRODUCTIVE ARGUMENT

I am sure 

there are galaxies 

locked away inside me, 

so I guess 

there must be 

at least one or two 

socked away inside 

you too—

and although 

it must sound as if 

the opposite 

is true, 

that's exactly why 

it feels so 

businesslike 

whenever 

either one of us 

tries to win a fight.

Those little 

hot flashes, those tiny 

realistic stings

are hapless 

quadrillions 

of planets colliding 

and quasars 

playing chicken til they 

silently annihilate—

and all 

for the designless, 

inevitable sake 

of huge forces' 

compulsion to 

merge with each other,

and thereby, 

to fill a 

compliant universe 

with whole lot less 

of themselves 

as they were 

in exchange for new 

dominion over 

just a little more.

INVOLVED

All these years 

at arm's length—

I wish I could say 

we're still on

the same page, 

but the truth is 

less sonorous (yet 

more rigorous) 

than that: in fact, 

we aren't just

light years, but 

parsecs apart.

But ever since 

the day when we first 

became entangled, 

I can still sense 

the spin of my 

stablest particles

all cartwheeling off 

to the rhythm

of your heart. 

In this whole vast 

and radiant 

theater of rapport, 

I should never again 

want to perform 

with you on stage,

but my guess is

we'll always be 

two distant spectators

yawning concurrently

at the very 

same ballet.

EXEMPLAR

How is it 

we should ever 

come by the right 

to posthumously 

call someone an

extraordinary individual? 

The measure 

cannot be 

whether or not 

their heart 

was pure

or indivisible,

for the question 

is not that it came

to be broken—

or when, or how

often—but rather, 

how uniquely? 

How instructive—

moreover, how edifying

a sermon 

was the sound 

which we heard in its 

barbarous blasting?

How seen did we feel 

as we sifted 

through the shatters, 

and how beautifully 

pointless was their

pitiable pattern?

BOTTOM LINE:

whether you get 

or miss the gist 

of the pliant, hospitable  

murmuration 

proffered to you 

by the gentlest lapping 

of a dock-

bound collection 

of moon-kissed 

night waves, 

thank your lucky 

stars—or say 

an indebted prayer 

to the Lord—doesn't matter: 

the subtlest 

answer 

to the most 

precious question, 

whose phrasing 

could not, in ten 

thousand lives 

come to you

(despite your worst 

impulse toward 

reproof

and interference)

is not merely 

still uninjured, but 

inviolably 

there.

OFFERING

At this point, I'd 

probably be happily 

resigned 

to perform for my life 

in the name 

of human sacrifice. 

But all I can cram 

in the mouth 

of your attention 

is a recombination 

of the bits 

I have stolen 

in hopes 

of acceptance, relief, 

or purgation.

In any case, 

please take it—incomplete

though it is:

it's a knotted-

up fist 

which persists 

where my heart did;

a little, 

clenched core 

around which 

my devotion 

revolves 

with the verve 

of a galaxy 

unfettered;

it's a nexus—

where the future 

and past 

smashed together, 

and broke open, spilling 

sequences 

of all my favorite 

letters.

VESPERTINE

As late afternoon 

denatures 

into night, 

the far-off and measured 

toll of large

bells 

invites, with its 

bronzed imitation 

of brightness,

this soothing

refusal to comply 

with the gloom:

for a breath's

length or two, I don't 

fight my weariness

over who can remain 

a little longer 

in the light.

FACETS

As time goes, 

each smooth 

virgin edge 

of the glassy 

lagoon that is

this soul—

much like 

its best watery 

playact, my face—

slowly fills 

with distortions 

and ripples. 

How soon serene 

stillness and selfless 

reflection 

may return to these 

places is not 

to be known—

much like the truth 

of who first 

threw the stone.

GRIND

Each morning, 

without fail, all 

proverbial hairs 

are lined up 

by order of their

lengths to be split—

and each 

of our mandatory 

dominoes is counted 

and spread out 

into rows, in gleeful

apprehension 

of the ruinously 

dire chain 

reaction to follow. 

And then—in the streets

and the homes 

where we live,

one by one, at the halls

and the rooms we 

do business in—

the processes 

begin: insidious 

synonyms are secreted 

which leach into our 

speech and change each

"every" to an "only."

Once enacted, 

of course, this vile but 

daily transmutation

cannot be redacted. 

No wonder, by evening, 

everyone's exhausted. 

THE TRICK

Believe me, 

I think it'd be pretty 

terrific  

if the words which 

have already passed 

in-between us 

thus far in our time here

on Earth would do

the trick. But 

I'm afraid when it 

comes to seeing 

one another clearly, 

it's like we're kept 

separate by the thinnest

bolt of fabric. 

And this endless,

flimsy, sort of 

see-through stuff—

which spools out

between us

every time we talk—

is a color 

we'll never be able 

to name and 

a shape whose 

dimensions our minds 

can't explain. 

In fact, the best thing

I could do with this 

problematic sentence  

is: wrap it with love

in that strange 

train of chiffon,

enact a silent, 

large, swooping 

gesture with my hands 

to indicate a problem 

"the size of our lives," 

blow you a kiss, hope 

that you catch it, and 

leave my account 

at that.

ARGUMENT FROM IGNORANCE

Come to think of it—

true genius 

can only be rare 

as genuine 

vacuity. Yes, 

of tremendous 

ability and expertise, 

only a precious

few can speak, but 

who among 

the rest of us plebes 

doesn't sleep—

and while we sleep, 

command the supple 

and prodigious guile 

of the genuine sophist? 

Granted, no napper

gets described as 

particular—let alone 

meticulous, witty, 

or discerning—but 

none the less, 

plainly, all are 

quite industrious. 

In their dreams, in 

other words, everyone's 

an artist.

AUSPICES

Beneath a listless copse 

of beech trees,

this ambush 

of snarling 

and sharp 

angled tiger lilies—

all pennants  

of danger-

orange and blood 

spattered maws—

would seem 

to prowl hard 

before the

four-way-stop curbside—

but only

to keep 

every late 

summer hatchling

from wandering 

witlessly 

out 

into traffic.

ENFANT TERRIBLE

If it weren't so

immaterial, 

your soul 

would not look

beautiful—

for what on Earth is 

that presupposed 

pith 

but your 

sour grapes, mixed 

with denial 

of death? It's less 

vigilance 

than standoffishness—

emboldened,

made whole, 

and given 

carte blanche to go 

out on the prowl. 

If it perchance 

could corporeally 

exist, 

the misanthropic look 

in its rude, 

aloof eyes would 

probably insist:

I'm too good for this 

charnel house. 

Or worse:

nothing you can 

lose here 

even matters 

anyhow.

DENIAL

Begrudgingly, we salute 

that most placid 

of icebergs

which shall ever 

come silently 

plowing through our lives: 

the somehow identically 

slapdash 

and dignified 

way in which 

our preferences 

of cut, fit, and style change 

at such a meticulously 

glacial pace 

that, 

no matter how 

we age, we always wear 

the same size.

ON FIRST BROWSING TWITTER WITHOUT AN ACCOUNT

Even a

pinch-dose is

baffling

as free jazz: 

all melody 

and desperate rhythm

without 

the assimilative 

grounding

of chords;

in aggregate, 

you're positioned 

in the nosebleeds 

of a stadium 

whose girders 

and trusses groan

and strain

beneath the weight 

of an oversold 

audience, somehow 

stomping 

and singing 

their own 

private anthems 

in disconcerting 

sync.

SEMIPRECIOUS

When I think of it, 

I'm delighted 

to analogize 

my mind 

to a diamond: 

sharp, clear, 

and multifaceted—

downright 

lustrous, the way it 

somehow elicits 

all of the breathless 

spectacle of living 

from within 

an array of 

interdependent 

yet multiple 

defectless planes 

conjoining. 

But then, 

when I'm made 

to think of it further, 

only in the presence 

of light 

does that happen—

and only 

at the hands 

of a well-

trained artificer 

who plies 

every trick of his 

trade to these things

over and 

over again—

all day long—

for a living.

HINT:

The secret answer 

to every riddle 

is time.

Sit 

in the eye, 

while the wild 

imagination rages

and swirls, 

pouring buckets of "ifs"

an conjecture

which buffet 

you from 

dusk til dawn;

bear that inexorably 

slow oxidation 

of fickle 

bones and supple 

skin 

with patience—long after 

your patience 

is gone;

always 

take a pass 

on action; 

never stifle 

one valuable yawn; 

simply outlast 

all the difficult questions—

and you'll never 

(in this life)

be wrong.

HUNTING INSPIRATION

After recounting 

all the loot in my 

empty open fist,

I'm starting to guess 

that there's no 

huge reward 

in chasing after treasures

which we didn't 

bury first. Though

of course, it's also 

much riskier, 

this dredging 

up of our past's 

cursed abundance, 

it's the only 

nest egg whose 

provenance we can trust. 

Yes, courage 

comes quick 

from the hits 

and the fixes 

and the tricks we 

impetuously lift 

off of others, 

but courage 

is still not the asset 

we're after;

courage is only 

the prick 

we require

to dig deep 

and far back 

in our body 

of debts,

and wonders, 

and regrets—

until we 

hit the chest.

SHELTER

As a stubborn 

old mollusk 

who's been 

dredged up from 

the ocean bottom— 

whose armor is 

his only home—

who's devoid 

of all earthly ambition 

or hope, since 

he's never once 

gazed up at starlight 

or sun—

I have but one 

scummy token to give,

my only 

lasting favor:

I promise not to wonder 

how did I get here?

or spiral out the question

where will I go?

On the surface, 

everyone knows 

precious little, 

yet they go 

around pretending to assess 

and debate.

I shall maintain this 

calcified silence; 

I won't 

belabor salvation 

or hell. 

From my shell, I don't 

claim to make this 

nebulous existence 

any easier to take. 

I simply exist 

to make the sheer 

weirdness of it 

a little less hard 

to illustrate. 

RE YOUR SHIT ADOLESCENCE,

consider the caterpillar—

no longer 

itself, 

quaking 

in its skin-

tight chrysalis,

hallucinating absurdities

in cold black 

and white: 

warm 

sweet of nectar, 

technicolored flight.

PHILIA

Shoot straight, 

god:

were we made to feel 

responsible 

for one another 

no matter what—

or not? 

You'd think 

that a grammar 

of love

would be simple;

would flow 

with the changes, 

as it does

in the hymnals—

but intuitions 

and affections flicker 

like the red walls 

of vestibules 

packed with votive candles.

 

All of which is to say 

that, focused 

as we are 

by a little sanctity  

and ritual, 

the picture's 

not okay; 

we're still getting 

mixed signals.

THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS

Scarcity 

may be our most 

archetypal fear—

but it's also the most 

groundless, since 

there's so much more here 

than our fiercest 

combatants could hope 

to defend. For example,

hands are so numerous, 

there is always one 

to lend—

and time 

is so ample that it never 

quite advances. 

And the blue sky 

blushes out so wide that, 

what could be the chances 

that you ever would 

run out of vintage 

sermons to mistrust 

from the glut of ancient 

gods who still must 

float and make their homes there,

their vengeance 

too great to be blighted 

by death, yet

so infinite-

ly diffuse, it just feels

pleasant now instead?

A POSTERIORI

        After James Wright

You might think, 

one day,

in passive time 

with the rhythm 

of a hammock swinging—

as you blink 

away the dispassionate 

sky 

and feel the raggedy  

tops of tall grass blades 

tickle the dangling

tips of your fingers—

the great poet 

was right: I have wasted 

my life. And yet,

standing between

a real feeling 

and the truth 

is the fact that 

you never decided 

or chose to.

And who knows—

that skinny divergence, 

that small act 

of defiance 

might alter the future 

as well as 

the past—

as you oscillate 

there in the breeze 

killing time—

from deep 

in the center of your story 

on out,

one bleary vowel, 

one rough syllable 

at a time.

END OF THE MOVIE

I used to imagine—not 

unlike most—

that the gig was 

to simply keep 

playing our roles; 

we were heroic, 

dynamic characters 

whose roads through 

hard times led to 

changes for the better.

But now, the whole plot 

has gone on for so long 

that I've come 

to suspect that our job 

is much stranger 

and less glamorous 

than that. In fact, 

we're now working 

in those black times 

after the show,

swimming through oceans 

of slow-scrolling credits, 

and trying to determine 

for something 

like "certain" 

which strange collection 

of symbols we were. 

And meanwhile, 

our customers—an emotion-

purged audience—

grow restless and mumble  

their disparate ideas

concerning 

when it's appropriate 

to get up and go.

PARLOR TRICK

Here's how I want you to think 

of things now: 

your job is

to fold and tear 

all your old 

strategies for coping 

along their suddenly-

obvious perforations.

You'll notice 

in doing so

that beliefs, feelings 

and sympathies 

are no longer things 

but processes; that is 

to say: modular affectations.

For instance, 

even your nascent-

ly blooming intention 

to follow these 

directions 

was much less 

a thought 

than a 

realization.

SURPLUS TO REQUIREMENTS

What on Earth 

did we think we

would do with 

all these vestigial 

memories? 

With so many 

leftover 

disabused-of thoughts 

and jealously hoarded

obsolete feelings 

still stacked

to the rafters in 

cordoned off spaces, 

it's a wonder we 

have room 

to breathe—let alone 

face the prospect 

of cleaning up 

or leaving.

Besides, in the shape 

they're in, 

how could we escape—

I mean,

how could we 

ever hope to

sell these old places 

and move to a newer, 

cleaner state 

of being—especially 

knowing, in our 

moth-eaten hearts,

that it wouldn't take long 

to cram a new one 

with bygones

and antique 

emotions from floor 

to ceiling?

PORTABLE MODEL OF THE IMAGINATION

In the maze 

of the mind, unlocked 

doors lead 

to questions—

some of which tend 

to dead-end 

at problems—problems 

which the burly

charioteer, 

possibly in-league 

with his clever friend 

the engineer, 

work to a fever 

pitch of effort 

to resolve—til the poet,

ever floating 

in that bath which fills 

synaptic gaps,

chances 

to stir from his open-

ended nap 

 

to spill a few non 

sequiturs, which 

dissolves them.  

20/20

Actually, it's a blind: 

hindsight is poor 

as the rest 

of your vision.

And with distance, 

failures sometimes wear 

smeared halos of affection.

Just as sheer darkness 

(all those lightyears 

of opacity and ignorance)

connects the stars, 

so too are your 

past fiascos, banes, 

defeats, and cataclysms 

subject to the cataract fog 

secreted by the intellect. 

In fact, the mind's eye 

can't envision

passing through such a 

miasmatic gap 

to behold up-close 

that which it cannot 

crawl back to. 

What sorts of distortions 

and smudges 

would be rendered? 

Much more importantly,

how much contempt, 

prolapse, and bewildered 

disgust with your past 

would you expect 

to see reflected 

in that sort of light?

SHIBBOLETH

True love 

is knowing 

that life's 

too short to 

change too much. 

It's both never 

saying never

and never 

getting clever. 

Yes, true love 

is so 

unencumbered, 

it'll rhyme 

the very same 

words together 

over and over 

and not feel 

ashamed.

And it isn't 

merely kind 

and patient—

it's a doormat 

and a sucker;

it'll spend the night

in a parking lot, 

or waiting up 

in a candle-

snuffed kitchen 

forever. 

And even if 

true love thinks 

it saw something, 

true love won't

bring it up

because

true love is

knowing better.

It's an expert 

at passing you 

your jacket 

without sniffing it 

or first patting 

it's pockets, since

true love 

truly loves 

playing it cool—

when it thinks it 

hears truths 

which it doesn't 

truly love,

it doesn't raise 

a fuss; it's

all-like: 

"yeah, that's fine, 

whatever."

BREVIARY

From that very first 

catastrophe of dawn—

to the loud Lauds 

of galloping cars, 

wind, and rain; 

then, the chatter 

and nibbling, 

bit by bit 

in this or that 

room, until

all sacraments are gone—

to the gradual 

slouching, the slow 

bowing-down, 

with its penitent 

crawl towards 

reconciliation 

between twilight's 

wine and slight

disinhibition  

as they swim 

through your mind and

play out on television—

nothing and no one 

you'd shudder 

to mention 

as noiseless 

or voiceless 

ever seems to come.

The miracle, such 

as it even exists

to be witnessed, is

there never comes

a second's-worth 

of perfect 

blameless silence

all day long—no

not even one.

SIX OF ONE

Turns out human 

evolution was a 

balancing act: 

intellect 

winnowed instinct 

to a half-empty glass;

walking upright 

borrowed dignity 

from the quadruped class. 

But what no one ever mentioned

is that opposites 

attract—

that our fetish for abstractions 

which are stylish,

rich, and opulent 

could yet mesh with 

concrete weakness for the 

destitute and derelict—

that, at base, we are all

made up of a universe 

of specks, 

half of which possess 

what the other 

half lacks—and that 

some days, we are 

gobsmacked, others ruined 

by that fact.

PHOTOTAXIS

Curious 

how the littlest 

gash of white light 

which swims past the iris 

in the eyes 

of a friend—and, 

at the bedside, 

how the meagerest drip 

from a night light

will abate, in those 

great tracts of land 

deep inside us,

some vast and ever-

roving pestilence 

of black. Perhaps 

that's why the endless 

redundancy 

of stars 

has never 

done more than

the littlest bit 

to bore 

or discourage their

bewildered observers. 

COMMODIFIED

Careful. 

Your benevolence, 

forgiveness, and largesse

may someday 

transform you 

into less of a 

noble stump 

of the Giving Tree 

and more of a fixture 

in an old 

public restroom.

Abusive and abused, 

one by one, 

they will come; 

they will 

need you, not 

beseech you.

They will spill

all they reject 

from their guts, 

and then flush—

and expect 

you to simply 

exhale, 

and refill. 

And yes, 

by grace, somehow, 

no matter 

how many times 

you swallow, 

the well in the middle 

of your soul 

keeps refreshing.

You alone know

that the level 

imperceptibly 

draws lower  

and closer 

to the drain line 

each time. 

BABEL REDUX

The problem was never 

communication 

so much as 

revelation. Now,

after eons

worth of bait-

and-switched 

promise 

and desertion, 

every last 

gesture on Earth 

has been inverted—

instead of classic

dramedies, starring 

Tin Pan Alley carnage, 

complicity 

is subversive, 

and feeling self-

righteous, a decisive 

plan of action.

And to think—

only yesterday, 

all of humanity 

(or so say the glyphs 

in an old book that's

tough to translate)

once was roundly 

punished

for speaking 

one language.

HIGHER POWER

Little innocuous 
wisp of cloud, 

in the time 

it would take to jot 

this down, you 

will have subtly 

rearranged. Why 

do you never 

stick around 

to demonstrate

how, even 

when I know, 

I don't really know—

to help me

come around 

on how mighty it is, 

under sky

like ours, to change 

one's mind?

CONSOLATION PRIZE

Given all the vastness, 

there must be 

a planet 

that's gentler 

and less thoroughly 

exhausted 

than this one. 

But wherever 

exists that more tender 

place to land, it's 

probably so distant 

it'd exhaust us 

just to get there. 

So perhaps 

we'd do better 

to work on getting 

less offended 

by the penchant 

of this world 

for the relentless 

and indefinite. 

In fact, perhaps 

the world's sadness 

is a special kind 

of balm;

an outgrowth 

of our gratitude 

for the time 

it has taken us

to get this lost

and the fortune

of time which is 

still on offer 

to pay 

off the interest on 

the opportunity cost.

SPIRITUAL PHASE

Sooner or later, 
we all try on 

those loaded 

clothes which 

the monist wears—

before its base parts, 

the chaste 

whole is paraded:

one Circle, 

from which wretched

arcs are created.

Surely, Unity

is a fabric

whose richness 

we can't fathom—

and yet 

such a fine habit 

fits tight, 

and it itches. Plus, 

with what 

will we pay 

when the time 

to tithe comes, 

our pockets 

now empty, even 

of atoms?

TO MY MUSE

Lets pretend 

for a minute, o

severed head, 

that you exist—

not to be seen, 

but, in the limit, 

just 

to speak to me—

defend me, 

befriend me when 

I'm stuck

for an ending. 

In the mirror, 

it seems that my 

own face's creases 

are multiplicative 

and deepening—

and yet, still 

I am reluctant 

as an apprentice 

to admit 

that fairy tales 

have endings,

and horse tails 

may have endings, 

but works of art 

(like knives) 

just have their 

edges 

and their ends. 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

When I close 

my eyes and lie 

quiet at night, if I'm 

posed 

just right, I can finally 

hear my heart—

but I don't 

exactly mean 

the beating—it's

the rhythm 

of each tiny 

valve clicking open 

and closed again 

which speaks to me 

specifically 

in a kind 

of Morse Code 

that's both 

arcane 

and self-

explanatory:

everything you can't see

will be borne

witness to eventually, 

but though 

recognition 

is all to the good, 

that won't necessarily 

mean it's 

understood.

INKLING

Lately, I suspect I'm 

mistaking 

my insouciance  

and spates of obsessed 

regularity 

for weightiness—forsaking 

all meaning 

to focus 

on timing—

in the hopes that 

this surfeit of 

vacancy and lack 

may yet 

amalgamate into 

a mallet—

a mallet which 

one day, I'll be able 

to swing 

and whack 

all those nonchalant moles 

of regret 

that keep popping 

up from these holes 

in my feelings. 

SONG OF THE SOPHIST

Instead of 

growing gradually 

slower and blinder, 

what if the years 

make me more 

and more sensitive 

to the ways in which

the wonder serves 

to compliment the horror 

of every pair 

of rising 

and setting suns? 

Or perhaps I'll hear sounds 

more intensely 

than the patience 

and time it would take 

to write down 

or describe them—or realize 

that the scent of loss, 

and tang of strong 

renunciation 

now feel like a mix 

of mundane 

and supernatural 

that's become 

second nature to my seasoned 

mouth and nose.

It's possible that, in return, 

a sense which is 

even more obscure 

might fail me 

as I summit the peak 

of my powers; 

but most likely, it won't 

matter, since I

don't rely on it any longer. 

In fact, I 

won't even know 

what to call it—

though, if pressed 

and harassed by the 

unpracticed young, 

I'll still smile and say 

something like: all my

specificity. 

INDISCRETION

My silence 

isn't terminal—

my silence is 

my home.

Though it isn't

my address, it's 

the place 

where I came from. 

And every time 

I choose to speak,

that is me 

leaving.

That's my soul

sneaking 

out the window 

after midnight, 

breaking curfew 

for a joyride 

and some 

fast food, 

and some bracing—

if a little bit 

blue 

and unwanted 

attention—

from a man 

whom even 

I know 

to be a 

bad influence.  

BEST PRACTICES

One day, I 

may learn 

to forget 

about blackbirds—

to one 

by one shut 

each obsidian eye

and just walk 

away 

from that branch 

in my mind—

and 

for all I care, let 

the brave sun 

and full moon 

collide—

and leave 

every furtive 

tiger lily 

purring in the dark,

locked away 

in a small 

musty drawer 

inside one 

of the four 

chambers of my 

silent heart. 

But 

I don't know 

which day 

I may turn from 

that gaze, or 

which night 

the mind's poem 

turns to pure, 

steady light; 

so, until 

I can see it

without urgency 

or interest, 

best to keep

the days clear,

and continue 

to write.

POINTS OF INTEREST

When you first came, 

you came as 

a bang—

a prop gun 

full of blanks. 

But then, 

you became 

a name—a little 

licking tongue 

of flame—

one flickering belief 

in search of 

its religion. 

But still, you were 

not done. 

A performance ensued 

by a svelte-

but-complex system—

a fireworks display 

without cause 

or explanation. 

After that, though, 

the problem 

soon moved

from "what do I 

do next?" to 

"how can I 

refuse?" as your 

point of interest 

gradually grew 

from "what 

have I become" 

to "how have I 

been used?"

And "how long 

has it been 

going on?" And, 

especially:

"by whom?"

THE LADY OR THE TIGER

Which one 

of the two 

do you 

want to hear more about? 

What do you 

really want 

to be told? 

Is it something 

you don't already know—

like the limits 

of trust, 

or which lusts you  

can't control? 

Or would you settle 

for any small

anecdote at all, 

as long as it comes 

with enough 

space around it 

to somehow both 

extend the bounded

outcome of the choice,

and, of course, 

to muffle the roar 

or clear voice 

which might 

dwell beyond the door?

REFRIGERATOR POST-IT NOTE

Bold as you are,
you might hold
a few hands,

as it helps to 

distribute the load 

like a yoke.  

Within reason 

fall all of the labors 

you could mention,

and your neighbors 

don't know if you're 

making a joke—

but it's they 

who'll lay hands 

and lend 

shoulders to your body 

the day when

your tour 

of exhaustion is done; 

and you won't 

begrudge someone 

for carving in stone 

that backbone 

was your burden 

and your heart 

rolled into one.

WORKADAY

Behold—

the patiently 

prodigious artist

as he sits 

amid his 

unerring arsenal 

of bold 

and marvelous 

masterpieces: 

this uncountable catalog

of masterfully
casual

agreements 

he's made with

his own higher purpose: 

to always remain

in the gold-

spinning business

 
of making one

painstaking

change at a stretch—

to his 

humdrum, one-and-

only canvas.

NO ONE EVER GETS WHAT THEY WANT

Living or dead, 

no one's ever turned 

invisible, since 

as far as we know, 

it's still quite 

impossible 

to slip inside 

one of their dreamt 

counterfactuals. 

Just like how, 

technically, none of us 

is beautiful

or can ever be considered 

entirely 

hopeless yet

because, although not 

immortal, we've still

got a little time left—

and between those 

redoubtably 

final iron doors 

which stand there unlocked

at the beginning 

and the end of things,

the little scrap of hall 

we all meander 

for a while, 

although less 

enthralling, is rightly

called the middle.

LET'S GET THIS OVER WITH

You already know 

how this is going 

to go—

it's another 

"I would do anything 

to stop me 

from dissolving" poem. 

Perhaps, though, we've

both got the premise 

all wrong; 

perhaps bliss

(if we're able 

to fractionally grow it)

is the feeling 

a throat lozenge feels 

when it's tossed 

off a boat 

in a tempest 

for being 

the wrong kind 

of soothing 

as it melts 

and melds 

completely with 

the force that is  

the sea.

NOBLESSE OBLIGE

There really is 

a book, in fact, 

in which everything 

is written. 

But the catch is 

you 

don't get 

to read it 

while you are 

still living. 

For now, it's only 

the muteness 

of touch; 

the silence 

of voices calling 

and calling; 

and the doubt 

that rises, 

blindly, 

to follow  

and convince you that 

you're dreaming. 

For now, 

only this much 

of the text 

will be given; 

only this much is 

innocuous (but 

still intelligible) enough

to be understood—

to be underlined 

and annotated 

by any inmate 

in this prison—

as true 

beyond reason, 

beyond purpose, 

beyond question.

JUST-SO STORY

If we're being 
honest, there are 

constantly days—

grave days 

with ashes 

and rain;

engrossing ones, where 

cravings wash 

away in the flow;

even those 

harebrained and

frivolous days—

where we have 

absolutely 

nothing to say. But 

do we not always 

later draw some 

words out anyway?

It's as if 

there's one magical,

summarizing utterance 

we were custom-

made from birth 

to make

and our lives 

are just 

the prompts 

to which we 

must respond 

to iterate.

After all, 

though it may be 

formidably made,

a bell's not 

a bell 

unless you ring it—

and our fortunes 

don't quite 

sound like hell

until we can 

hear ourselves

explain them away.

PICARESQUE

Why do you 

still reek of muses 

and luck, 

of such fraudulent 

portents as 

the way the wind is blowing? 

Were you so 

unwittingly 

raised to believe 

in those inevitable angels 

who hover 

invisibly 

over each 

grass blade out there, 

encouraging it to grow? 

I must say that it seems so

from the way I 

could feel you 

swaying 

in the veritable 

breeze you were making 

as you prayed 

again last night, in the 

usual frenzy 

for clarity's grace 

to be delivered 

through your window

instead of 

for the frivolous,

next opportunity 

to labor quixotically 

for a glimpse 

again tomorrow.

JAZZ

Memory is not
a history book;

it's a tarnished brass
instrument whose
stoppers got stuck.

To regurgitate
the repertoire

is no longer
an option;
one must screw-up

one's face, blow hard
and shake

whatever
jet of strangulated
sound one can manage

to make
into existence,

and then, after the fact,
just call that
the music.

DAILY POETRY BLOG

It's like—every day, 

you must keep

rediscovering

that things 

have a fearsome 

and unnatural 

reality. 

That is—everything

(from that crack 

in the cloudburst 

where the sun sneaks 

a kiss,

to the vodka fifth

which was left 

on the bus bench 

now half-filled 

with piss)

is formidably, 

redoubtably 

just what it is.

And then—

you must squander 

the rest 

of the reverie 

grandstanding  

to convince 

anyone 

who will listen 

that not only 

were you surprised 

by this, 

you then found it 

satisfactory. 

CRAVING

It's true 

enough that 

life is long, but 

life isn't 

half as long 

as desire is.

How long 

can you sit there,

still as a parked car 

watching it thunder 

like a cavalcade 

of freight cars 

that scrolls on 

forever as you 

idle at the crossing?

And after that, 

are there really any 

words you can gasp

that could process 

the experience 

of burning in this fire

as the future you covet

proceeds to

outlast you—that is, 

without also 

not consuming it 

entirely? 

KING'S GAMBIT

Rorschach test 

in a game 

of chess:

do you see before you 

a contest 

to be won, 

or a problem 

which intellect 

and patience 

may solve? 

Wait—do not give us 

your answer 

just yet; 

first, observe 

for yourself how 

all of the pieces 

and moves 

you could need 

are already present—

just like 

every word 

you could speak 

comes to mind pre-

invented. 

* 

This is not a matter 

of black 

verses white. 

Ham and eggs 

are black and white—things 

you can taste 

and touch 

and relate to. 

This 

is a hitch 

which is 

altogether different.

Unless, of course, 

you've just been 

terribly impatient 

with the time it takes 

the light 

by which you might 

recognize 

a self

to scream across 

vacuums 

of spacetime 

and hit you. 

A PREOCCUPATION

Starkly in profile

on a bench 

in the park, 

an old woman 

sitting hunched in the 

aggregating dark—

her gaunt, 

tortured fingers, the pallor 

of sunscreen,

knitting where she 

gnaws on an out-

of-season nectarine.

Though silent 

and wearied with her 

quest for its pit, 

a sticky voice 

cuts the glum 

dusk air to bid you—

do not forget:

in your life 

there is someone 

even now, whom you love

that you need to

call and check on.

SOPHOMORE THESIS

Sooner or 

later, everyone 

muses: perhaps, if 

no one measures it, 

time refuses 

to pass. 

But of course,

a fat lot of good 

that would do.

All that flaccid

stasis would only 

confuse us—plus,

it still wouldn't 

give us what we 

actually want:

namely, the ability 

to make it 

run backwards.

But the only way 

to do that 

is to banish 

all this chaos—

to scour 

our regret and strip 

the now of all 

past decadence.  

We must 

demolish entropy 

and extirpate 

collapse. We have 

to do the laundry; 

we have to 

wash dishes.

CARRIED AWAY

Are you

soothed 

to see 

rose bushes 

blooming to blot 

out the wrought iron fences—

reassured 

by a pinkness 

like the underside

of clouds? 

Not to mention—by 

the sun-dried rush 

of dew-sweet 

petals riding 

roughshod 

on the warm breeze 

until their scent 

hits that secret spot  

behind your eyes 

that makes you ask:

soothed 

from which particular 

surreptitious 

agitation, again?

Reassured (by whom) 

about what? 

MODERN ESCHATOLOGY

Now, the futile 
is essential,

and resistance is

emasculating. 

We feel our most 

genuine

when we're

intransigent.

Nothing 

shocks us anymore. 

*

What if  the self

we selflessly love 

is the one we knew 

when we were four 

and now 

just don't remember? 

* 

Craving, 

once quenched, 

leaves a sort of 

crease 

in experience.

A hunger, once satisfied, 

still persists 

in the mind

exactly as if 

it had never been 

satisfied. Now, 

I wonder—is that 

what they meant 

by 

the life of the world 

to come?

ENVOY

When you talk 

of heaven, 

it makes me 

think: assisted living—

endless 

florescence, 

manic

Pan Am smiles;

nostalgia 

for bitterness, 

abrasive edges, 

panic;

and last but 

not least, an orderly 

or two—

under authority

and paid out 

of pocket 

to profit 

by my insights 

and crucify 

my doubt.

I GOT WORRY

Our misery 

(god willing) 

may be a 

slender thing, 

but its looming 

casts a long

and a 

powerful shadow. 

In fact, when stooped 

underneath it, 

it's so dark 

and so cool, it puts 

the backbreaking blaze 

of halcyon days into 

startling relief.

So sue us 

if some of us 

choose to savor 

our grief

and recline 

in the dimness 

of its gloom 

where it's safe—

for, as far as 

we recall 

of that bright world 

of mistakes,

we've never even 

seen ourselves 

with a look of peace 

upon our face, since 

the only time 

it might possibly 

look that way is 

after we go to sleep.

ASK ANY PHILOSOPHER

It's offensive

how we glamorize 

the groundlessly romantic; 

reckless 

to find ourselves 

so swept up 

in the dangerously 

doe-eyed 

side of fascination. 

Though stilted

and miserly, how much 

wiser by far 

to stuff the soft 

caresses and 

intoxicating liquors—

to shun 

the perkiness  

of flowers 

and the amorous

light verse of

sentimental cards? 

For love is no 

warm feeling; it's 

an existential gesture—

a chagrined-but-willing 

yoking of your slender, 

feral welfare 

to the equally meager—

and no less unruly—

progress of another's.

DREAM LOGIC

As sure 

as the imperious, 

sunlit sky

obscures the vast 

networks of a 

needless astronomy, 

this waking life

too, is a mere 

obfuscation  

of your groundless

but illimitable capacity 

to lack.

No tricks; it does 

not matter where

you have been, since, 

everywhere

the black space of 

nothingness tingles,

existence's 

white pulses throttle, 

and hum.

As all 

that you know 

is slowly dissolved, 

you grow to see 

the wide open 

vacuum behind: 

a possibility 

which seemed to exist 

at one time—

was, all the while, 

a necessity 

always.