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.