WRITE OR DIE

Year after year, 

a poet's complexion

seem to worsen: 

each new pockmark 

or pimple 

is a line we

should have written;

every blemish, some 

vague image unexpanded, 

gone to waste;

every wrinkle, a metaphor 

we've failed 

to expand on—

or abandoned 

for the sake of some fetish  

with concision. Yes, 

little by little, 

our skin dries out 

and starts to tighten, 

as we feel 

entire stanzas—open spaces

deep inside us

closing their shutters, 

locking their doors, 

growing dusty 

as our cheeks fall 

and our jaws 

become rusty, 

until one day, 

we're left 

with no expression 

but the blank 

verse of rueful 

confusion on our faces. 

RESIGNATION

The faithless 

are those who survive 

long enough 

to watch their once-ripe 

goals become 

fermented into mush 

which they scoop up 

and store in a mason jar 

with the label hopes and dreams.

The sour stuff seems 

to work great 

as an offering 

to those featureless 

angels who'll watch 

over their graves.

It's not 

that they believe 

that these magical creatures 

will come 

and alight and 

eat the stuff—

it's just that 

they know 

from bitter experience 

that nothing 

in the universe works 

without pay.

CONFOUND IT

Difficult as it is 

to be understood, 

it seems it's 

harder still 

just to be seen. 

We point to 

the sky and say 

azure blue 

or sage green 

for the sea, as if 

it were true.

Worse still, we 

look inside 

and describe things 

we find there as

whisper-soft, 

or cunning, 

or disciplined, 

or young—but then 

hoard away those attributes 

like the balance 

on a gift card 

stored safe  

inside our wallets 

with no intention

to redeem.

BASIC DISASTER PLOT

On the big screen, explosions 

and flames hit us 

differently:

tragedy 

strikes us as 

so much more pliable. 

It's as if, watching, 

we're passively 

excited to remember

how suffering 

cannot be 

visited upon us

unless 

or until 

it's invited. 

We are too entranced

to notice, but we 

might as well be thinking:

if only 

this body 

was as tractable as fire—

if only 

this mind was 

that reliable. 

ABSTRACTED

In brief: it would seem 

that my 

mindlessness 

has a mind 

all its own. 

When I try 

to pin it down 

beneath 

concentration's 

light cone,

it slips past 

the confines of all 

apprehension 

and taunts me 

from the dark— 

like some 

suave super 

villain who's just 

busted out 

of prison—

simply by 

not paying 

any attention. 

CHAPERONE

After what feels 

like weeks, you'd think 

it would be 

such a relief 

to see the sun—except that 

the tiny kiss of heat 

that you feel 

in your cheeks 

feels so much more loaned 

than deserved. 

This small grace, here 

and then gone 

in a heartbeat, 

feels like the hours 

you forfeited to sleep 

last night, now 

returning 

to fortify your bones.

From ligaments 

to fingertips, you once again 

feel whole

as you know, 

for a moment 

you don't face the day 

alone.

INGENIOUS

It's a pity 

how often 

God gets trapped 

inside his 

own creation; his unconscionable 

moods, his pure 

and ethereal 

mastery over all ideas—

all of that 

gets tugged back inexorably 

to the dirt, 

weighed down 

by the animal concept 

of drag, which he invented.

And yet, 

never on his way 

to the ground does he 

stab 

with ineffable intent 

to wound and 

scar the planet—even as 

its worship turns 

to love and desire 

for distraction—

for namelessness 

still sits above 

all need to harness a crisis, 

and that which is 

clever would

never prescribe 

its own divorce 

from that 

which is kind.

EXTRACTION

Lately, I think 

there are too many ways 

to be open—

too many agreeable sounds 

I can make 

which burst from my 

throat in a flame 

in between us, and 

would seem 

to irradiate 

my plain and cold reticence 

in pulled-tooth 

display of ingratiating 

grace.  

Privately, I may worry 

about the cost 

of these displays—

worry how many words 

from my finite supply 

I can frack 

from my insides, 

pipe away, and set ablaze 

before my polite, hollow

body collapses—but

how could I possibly 

not agree with 

what you say,

whatever the inward 

price I must pay?

BOTH SIDES

Some of us plainly 

cannot resist; 

we think 

that to speak a thing 

with passion 

and repeatedly 

is the most efficient 

way to feed our 

hunger for significance—

while others insist 

on that tack's 

exact opposite;

like hoarders, they 

incarcerate 

the tiniest bits 

of fly-by-night 

language which chance 

to come near them. 

But of hunger 

of course, this is not

the reverse: their craving 

firstly, is 

to capture—and then 

after, to regurgitate. 

STRATAGEM

Whenever I think 

back on all the 

totems I have worshiped—

the uncanny 

animals, precious 

found objects, 

and solid, vivid gods,

now gone translucent 

black and white

and sorted flat 

in stacks inside

the book of memory—

I do not lament 

the present 

loss of their quintessence, 

but rather—feel emboldened 

by the foolishness 

of hope, 

for their domicile there 

has made it 

too clear 

that it may still be 

possible, even under 

such attack, 

for a substance 

or a presence which is faded 

or invisible 

to live on in 

consciousness, disguised 

as its own lack.

CATCH

Shortly after dawn—

the way 

a rising sun 

causes the great 

hulking shadows 

of roofs 

to slide off old

fence posts and move 

along the lawn 

in the park across 

the street from the 

place where I sleep—

and all I can wish is 

that I might 

still live 

and find myself 

awake and walking 

out my door to witness this

so many more 

times that, 

before too long, 

I absolutely 

fail to even 

notice it.

CUL-DE-SAC

In truth, the last 

time you perform 

a certain task 

doesn't feel 

very much at all 

like the first.

What it tends 

to resemble, almost 

exactly—and

much to your 

frustration—is just the next-

most-recent.

Which at least makes it 

decently 

easy to grasp 

the resentment 

and ennui you feel while 

stumbling through the work.

Sort of like 

Jesus'

coming again 

to judge 

the living 

and the dead: 

it feels somewhat 

needless 

or counterproductive 

in a kingdom 

which has 

no end.

BRAINSTORMING

Even with so much 

else to do, 

I still choose 

to walk around

in silence

and keep my eyes 

fixed on the 

middle-distance. 

And even if 

everything here

that I witness 

is an internal 

construct, that's not 

so bad; 

at worst, that just means 

that the whole thing's 

replaceable—

at best, 

that this city is 

entirely mine.

It's a solitary 

task and a

tall responsibility, 

but only an oyster 

can conjure a pearl. 

Each fleck

of thought is a first 

draft's first line;

so I touch one foot, 

then the next

to the earth, 

creating and abandoning 

possible worlds—

then colonize 

the realizable 

space with my mind, 

and watch 

as it organizes time.

PARADISE LOST

There are so many days 

when I don't speak 

to anyone; 

I see lawns and endless 

sidewalks, gruff local 

traffic, dogs.

And this is remarkably 

fine with me. 

See, 

these silent things 

and I, we get along 

famously 

as Adam 

and all of the 

creeping things in Eden. 

Then again, If I were him, 

humanity wouldn't have 

lasted too long.

I'd have balked 

at the thought 

of giving up 

an inch—

one single iota 

of lonesome perfection; 

I would never have consented

to the overnight 

theft 

of a smidgen 

of that which was 

given to me—let alone 

the indispensable 

symmetry 

of my rib cage—

just for the sake 

of a little 

conversation. 

COLOSSEUM

Everything is clean 

and bright—

and wireless,

and paperless, and 

state of the art—

here in the new-built 

and practically 

infinite 

Worldwide Arena 

of Free Information—where,

for the first time 

in history, all spectacles 

are equal, 

and everyone is always  

sitting in the best seat.

Though, of course, 

for some reason 

(which nobody remembers), 

only those court-side 

are privileged enough 

to know 

what really goes 

into the bratwurst 

which they bark for 

from our happy and eager 

herd of roving vendors.

SMALL WINS

Though it sounds 

as if it is, compassion 

really isn't that big 

of a thing. In fact, 

it's so little, so muted 

and innocuous,

so easy 

to miss, that it's 

difficult to resist. 

It's less a flaming sword 

than the edge

of a knife 

where kinship meets 

up with and annihilates self-

centeredness.

it's that end point 

which knows—like a 

rain blade knows the river;

like the youngest

frail animal knows

where its nest is—

that there's somebody 

out there at this 

very minute

in need of more help 

than they're willing 

to ask for—

or maybe, more help 

than they realize 

exists.

LOOKING THE OTHER WAY

Somehow 

or other, we are always 

so sure 

of those degenerate 

thoughts which we will not

accommodate—

certain 

that our cravings, 

our fears, and our doubts 

are itinerant 

drifters, stray hounds, 

and street walkers 

to be rounded-up 

and driven from our

nice, peaceful towns. 

But what of our 

convictions, our wild 

dreams, our hopes? 

For we know 

that they, too, must be 

roaming these grounds, 

singing on our 

corners and sleeping 

in our bus stations—

yet we hesitate 

to crack down on these 

sorts of riffraff,  

since we're so much less 

confident about

their motivations.

ADVISORY

We think we can hide

the disconcerted grimace 

of disbelief 

from our erstwhile 

transcendent faces, 

and forestall our 

perverse 

yet tremendous 

confusion 

by attending 

to the this 

specious present. 

And we're good—

and always 

getting better—at it. 

But we're wrong 

to posit what's next 

as perplexing; 

it's this life 

which is so 

maddeningly 

arcane 

and complex. And 

it's death 

which is so aching-

ly simple 

that it blends with the 

unreasonableness  

of every breath, 

even when 

we forget:

it's the nexus 

where all doubt 

and talent 

must cancel; 

the place 

where all our grieving 

ends. 

RECONCILIATION

That there are incalculable 

silences 

between stars, 

where the blank 

that stares back at you 

benevolently regards 

the offenses 

you've carried outdoors 

in your head, 

ought to remind you 

of Catholic 

school confessions—

kneeling 

before screens of that black, 

muted fabric 

and waiting 

for some litany of 

rote interrogations 

to reach inside 

and soothe your seething 

reservoir of poison. 

Only, this time,

instead of that bid 

to confess, 

your hope is that 

this tapestry 

may yet 

disarm you 

with quite a different 

set of questions:

How have you been 

scarred, my friend? 

And how long 

has it been since then? 

And did you not 

invite that knife in?

And if so, 

for what reason?

LONG SHOT

It's a small consolation 

to the dark 

horses out there 

that late afternoon light—

so tardy 

and dull 

as it falls strangely 

cold upon a crumbled

old brick wall—

after churning 

through a vast and vacant 

vacuum full of waste

in a timeless 

yet infinite race 

against inflation—

being born 

of umpteen billion 

apocalyptic furnaces' 

compulsive and

hysterical urges

to keep burning—

and with no real

objective, save 

to surge until it fails— 

could ever have 

prevailed against 

the threat of ruination

and should plausibly 

appear to have

made it here at all.