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.