Friday, June 30, 2023

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. 



Thursday, June 29, 2023

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.  



Wednesday, June 28, 2023

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.



Tuesday, June 27, 2023

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?"



Monday, June 26, 2023

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?



Friday, June 23, 2023

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.



Thursday, June 22, 2023

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.



Wednesday, June 21, 2023

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.



Tuesday, June 20, 2023

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.



Monday, June 19, 2023

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.


Friday, June 16, 2023

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.


Thursday, June 15, 2023

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.




Wednesday, June 14, 2023

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.


Tuesday, June 13, 2023

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. 



Monday, June 12, 2023

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? 



Friday, June 9, 2023

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. 


Thursday, June 8, 2023

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.



Wednesday, June 7, 2023

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.



Tuesday, June 6, 2023

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? 



Monday, June 5, 2023

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?



Friday, June 2, 2023

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.


Thursday, June 1, 2023

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.