PERSPECTIVE

It is hard 

to be both large 

and small 

enough to contain 

all the rubble

life rains. 

Not merely full

of old sour grapes 

and salt—and pelted, 

too, with hailstones 

of the intricate 

and sweet—

we are also 

each fated to somehow 

catch and hold 

negativity, 

absence, subtraction,

and loss. Indeed, 

we're so built

from strange debits 

and gains, 

it's impossible 

to measure the size 

of our souls—

which why 

we must caucus, 

regale, and compare:

without consultation 

from sisters 

and brothers, 

we cannot know

our radii—we lose 

all sense of scale.

SILENT RETREAT

Each morning, so 

compelled, I 

strictly attend 

and genuflect 

in the First 

Church of No Sound. 

And each morning, 

while I'm deep in the well

of reflection, 

a large bowl for 

collections invariably 

comes around.

And I watch, as if 

from a lonely vista, high 

above the ground,

as, one tidy 

mound of ever-

smiling silver at a time, 

my own private 

stash of greedy thought

is tossed-off, 

too reluctant—yet

too piously—into 

that trough. 

But somehow, despite that 

drive to count and 

hoard up all that's mine,

each time I manage

the circumspect trick 

of giving a little bit more 

than I thought 

I could spare just 

one morning before.

CAN'T KEEP DANNY DOWN

Outnumbered, 

outpaced, 

outweighed, 

and outgunned,

I scoff 

at the odds 

of three million 

to one—cuz they 

can't know 

what I keep 

all locked up 

behind this face, 

and they can't 

hear the theme- 

song I wrote 

in a dream 

and am singing 

without moving 

these lips 

as I weave 

through the throng 

on a horse called 

The Wind 

toward the harbor 

of home, where 

I'll lie down

'til morning—then 

rise, spit, and roll 

up my sleeves 

with a grin, flip-

off this town, 

and then leave 

for an encore 

of the very 

same suicide 

mission: take it 

on again. 

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.