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.