CLARITY

After another 

all-night bacchanal, 

the bewilderment 

in me 

falling 

drunk asleep. 

VICIOUS CYCLE

From time 

to time, the old 

guilt goes—in a flutter 

of the heart, 

perhaps, or churn 

of the stomach. 

Then, like some 

defenseless animal 

desperate to attach, 

it always comes back. 

But from where 

does it return?

And how hard 

was walking its 

arduous path? 

I'm ashamed 

to admit it, but—

I never think to ask. 

THE WORK

Well past noon, 

I still sit 

at the writing desk 

waiting for the violence, 

for the language 

to crack.

Words come 

(when they come) 

one by one, 

wet and slack;

as primeval 

subspecies 

from the ocean 

of doubt.

And one by one, 

I wring them out 

and hang them 

on the line of silence. 

But this isn't 

a method 

of making something

so much as 

a way of marking 

time.

STARS

Night after night, 

their mild light 

trickles 

like the ardor 

of a mother for her 

tenderest child—

like drizzle 

from the heights of some 

unfathomable past—

but in spite of this 

fact, and our hours 

in quiet contact, 

 

we still somehow 

wake up to find 

we've grown older. 

HEARSAY AND CONJECTURE

In a coming of age tale 

of the future, I wonder

whose fitful dream 

could have conjured 

this reality? 

So I blunder toward words 

until they rip themselves 

to shreds, 

until my thoughts

climb up trees 

to be crucified 

willingly; 

and I keep my ear pressed 

against the cold ground 

of indifference—

is it the sound 

of rapture 

or repugnance?—

I think: 

any ignorance

this profound 

must be on the brink 

of revelation. 

WINTER SOLSTICE

The way 

gaunt crows prowl 

the desolate 

playground after 

sundown,

as if scavenging 

for a reason to endure 

amid the empty packages 

of HotHands 

and Doritos there—

so tattered 

are the feathers 

at the tail-

end of December;

so unconscionably 

cruel has been 

the season 

of foreclosure.

GROUNDWORK

Because shadows 

when it starts 

getting late 

colonize walls 

and mute their colors; 

because, in warm 

window light pouring 

from coffee shops, 

strangers 

look familiar; 

because old snow 

on pasture contracts 

and grows smoother 

and the foreground

on the interstate

moves faster 

than the landscape—

we suppose 

there must be 

complex rules 

governing even 

the simplest place, 

so, although we 

can scarcely 

keep ourselves awake, 

we'd best stick 

around a while longer

to investigate. 

GASLIT

Distant but familiar 

nursery rhyme of church bells

chiming off the hour somewhere 

past these lonely lanes—

their chiding, inflexible 

machinations 

threaten to cleave 

the present moment 

again and again 

and again—

til I'm willing 

to believe 

that there is treasure 

in the ruthless,

comfort 

in old things,

freedom 

and pleasure 

in the scheme 

of automation. 

THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS

If we had perfect 

understanding, 

wouldn't 

nothing 

seem unjust? 

Wouldn't past events 

and sins acquit us,

and tenacious tendrils 

lose their grip? 

And if so, 

wouldn't the true 

extent of it 

seem suddenly choosy, 

and mean, 

and irrelevant? And, 

without such stiff analysis 

cinching us like dirt, 

wouldn't all

assurance erode 

from beneath us? 

Wouldn't our most 

precious roots 

start to rip?

FIGMENT

I suppose

then and now 

were the same 

moment once—

like strangers 

whose pasts ring 

eerily similar. 

Perhaps this is how 

my description

of your absence 

over time grows 

more precise—

and yet less  

and less familiar. 

RETREAD

All novel thoughts 

contract like vice grips

purpose-built to close. 

The path not taken 

can be just so 

only once—

as soon as we choose it, 

it becomes 

the one we chose. 

Everywhere we 

freely go, the rut of our 

compliance widens,

and, having 

arrived at our 

goals, we will find

we stand both

on the shoulders of giants 

and of roads.

WHAT A CONCEPT

Rather like 

the ether, 

our intention 

is a kind 

of filler material— 

a padding-

out of action, 

a quantum 

mechanical 

patch that fills holes—

made of pure 

surplus; indivisible

but significant 

to the being 

and propagation 

of our own 

satisfaction 

with words 

we deliberately aim

to invoke 

like purpose

and essence 

and soul. 

A MOMENT'S PEACE

Slow 

but inexorable drift 

of castles—

palaces of weightless 

whiteness sailing 

overhead—

each of them bliss-

fully empty 

of occupants—

no rulers, just 

inculpable 

massless structures

stockpiling light 

in splendid tenements 

of glass. 

ETERNAL RECURRENCE

Sleep comes 

like a blowhard,

insisting on itself—

talking all 

sweetly, putting 

the charm on. 

And we,

all too willing 

to give it one last chance—

to listen, 

to go along—

to let 

ourselves get

conned. 

LISTENING TO MUSIC

Is time 

transformed 

to the waiting 

room of space? 

Or has space leapt 

into time—all enclosures 

into soaring?

All we can know 

is that there is 

a flow, 

but to say in which direction 

(as if reduction 

were the sole 

rationale 

for our perception) 

might not bear 

repetition—

might begin 

to sound excessive, 

or worse, so 

extraordinarily 

boring. 

READING POETRY

The work is not 

to understand, 

deliberate, or make 

an inference; 

it's not so much 

interpreting as 

staring 

down a word 

until it means 

something—

then nothing—

then everything—

and at last,

if you're lucky, 

finally just 

itself again—only

now with that

explicitly 

unspeakable bit 

of difference. 

WIDE RELEASE

So swift 

and brutal was the nature 

of adversity—

so compressed 

and ruthless-

ly cut 

the montage 

of our troubles—

that, stock 

plot or not, sooner 

or later 

it became easy 

to convince ourselves 

we were living 

through a movie. 

First, as protagonists; 

later, as actors; 

and finally, 

as popcorn 

munchers staying 

for the credits

and only just 

now dimly 

trying to summon

the effort to stand 

up and exit 

the theater.

ACROBATS

What sort of creatures

both expect

and remember? 

It seems

since we left 

the trees, 

the rocks, 

the beach, 

the ocean, 

that some agents 

of destruction 

have been selling us

on adventure;

some reckless advisors 

have been whispering 

at our side. 

Their performances, 

however 

disingenuous, 

have been riveting—

but notice 

how that's no kind 

of answer. 

NOTE TO SELF

Just now, feeling heartened

by the clamor 

of December geese 

who scrape the sky 

on their bracing 

dash for sunnier climes—

but wait a minute—

why?

Because they remind me 

of all the others 

out there

who sound

and who look just 

the same in my mind, 

only fainter, 

because smaller, 

farther away, grayer—

but who, in their 

way, first reminded me 

of these.

UNFAIR

What sort of creature 

is the opposite 

of habit? 

Behavior as 

digression,

as estrangement 

with the past; 

reason 

as nostalgia,

and motive, 

a best-

dressed contest. 

Before I learned 

of devils, 

I might have been convinced 

that my actions 

were equal 

parts frivolous 

and blessed. 

HALF-TRUTH

As two hands 

draw together,

and each tented finger 

arcs to connect 

with its 

chiral mate, 

old power lines 

tilt inward 

and cradle gray roads. 

How, body 

by body, the world aches

to befriend itself—

how there's no earthly 

way of ever saying 

what it's like.

WAITING ROOM

The excruciating 

way the second 

hand of the clock 

stalls 

for its small 

eternities, 

as if resting—

as if catching its base- 

sixty breath 

upon chagrined completion 

of its

herculean task—

then stutters 

forward again 

with a jolt 

as if coerced—

as if enslaved 

to time's accretion 

with no will 

or countenance left 

for revolt—

inspires less 

impatience than 

dismay, and less regret 

than a softening 

to sympathetic amity 

toward death.

 

THE REMEMBERING SELF

Want to know the very best 

thing about 

the present? It's that 

every moment 

is still 

our best guess. Whereas 

retrospect 

is a hangman coming 

creeping towards the lever 

which couples 

the slackened noose 

of motive 

with the gravity 

of dis-

ingenuousness.

COUNTERPARTS

In the sterile 

light of 

later autumn, 

fiercely pronged leaves 

of near-indigo 

serve as signals; 

from their twiggy 

bifurcations, 

profuse twinnings

of what's what—

eerie facsimiles

of brass tacks—

stare back, as if 

daring you

to ask: 

which one 

is the original?

WATCHED THOUGHTS

The transparent 

way I panic 

and start to miss the moment,

even as

it's happening; 

the way a certain worry

just explodes

into my head, 

while another one

spares me—leaves me

unmolested; 

the way The Valuable 

has a penchant 

for staying so small 

and revolving around 

the same precious nouns

like elections in stable, 

orbital shells—

all remind me, somehow 

of a child on a carousel, 

deriving less comfort

from the rhythm 

of the ride 

than they do 

from the inexorability 

of a circle—

not to mention 

the surety 

of being 

observed. 

SMALL COURAGE

It's the littlest 

trees—not the gnarly,

grizzled mighty—

which manage to cling 

to their red gold 

leaves longest—as if 

the decadent color 

explorers once sailed 

the world for,

but which now 

falls beneath all earthly 

need for liberation,

still might well 

profit from defense 

against oppressors 

and, as dusk's empire 

swells, be their secret 

to keep. 

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

In lieu of 

talking politics, 

we shall talk 

of rapacity—

flagging for review 

the self-

centeredness of desire; 

by way of proxy 

for the future, 

we will talk about 

the weather—

a climate 

deteriorating more 

quickly than expected. 

Instead 

of the treasure-trove 

of pattern recognition, 

we will joke 

about our love—

then fall silent, praising 

no one present.

Do we really intend, then,

to raze the world 

in order to spare

a pleasant moment? 

What is it 

we're trying 

so hard 

to get rid of? 

INSURGENCY

There is something 

to be gained from

observing the way 

light's recalcitrance 

accumulates 

on a late November day—

when heavy gold rays

strike the trees' 

meager branches 

and seem, 

for the first time 

all year, to outspan them.

And though, as they

must do, they pass

right through,

for a moment, 

they seem to want 

to stiffen and hang,

like jewels 

on a pendant, for a week 

of afternoons—it's as if 

the light knew 

any better than you 

or I do 

how to own more 

than a moment 

in this world, 

how to thwart time, 

how to own it,

how to stay. 

RECURSION

What is it like 

to partake 

in the next life? 

What would it take 

to be—and stay 

at peace?

Experiment: stand alone 

at dusk, 

trying sincerely 

to picture the deceased 

as agile, pliant; 

as distant and laughing; 

as slapping 

at the silver 

waters—privately, 

but all 

together—shining 

in an endless sea.

*

Everything still 

reminds us 

of them—

especially the way 

they still remind us 

of all the things

they never can be.

CATCH

The truth can't be 

refused by the lowest-

lying waterhshed: 

now plus acceleration 

due to gravity

equals then;

in dribs and drabs, here 

must diffuse 

into there. 

If only 

a washbasin 

could be invented 

to collect the bygone 

present which 

condenses from thin air—

to preserve the raw 

and the too-

haunted things, 

and forestall them awhile 

from that freefall 

into yet—

a vessel to protect 

the still-

pure and unadulterated, 

to hold 

the only thing 

we can know

and prohibit 

even the littlest 

spill. 

DON'T OVERTHINK THIS ONE

The goal of all thought 

is to redirect

itself; 

to reach a grand end—

and then

to start over. 

In that sense, reflection 

is a threat 

to survival; 

careful second guessing, 

a burial plot. 

A retrospective lesson

reads a lot

like a tombstone—

a tombstone which, 

to instinct, also 

doubles as a roadblock,

bringing wild movement 

to a screeching halt. 

CHRISTMAS COMES EARLY

V of gray geese

plows the air 

of necessity,

trawling invisibly 

the last temperate clouds—

scours dull belief 

in the promise 

of winter

intoned in a far-off

untroublesome melody—

clears a fleet path 

for that 

heavenly peace 

in which, perchance, 

to sleep.

MATURITY

As flocks 

of pigeons 

sweep low 

above fountains 

in tacit sync—

then break—

then repeat;

as the once-

august leaves 

now stuff gutters 

and steep 

leftover water 

into strange,

reddish tea—

so too may

equanimity 

advance 

and retreat, 

taking no more 

or less pleasure 

in either 

than the craving 

for stability 

used to take   

in each. 

NIGHTMARE

Everything out there 

being patently 

what it is: 

two 

succeeding one, old age 

displacing youth—

no hiroglyphs 

to illustrate the march 

of our days, 

no metaphors 

to explicate as proof—

and definitely 

no lessons to tease 

from eternity's 

hashed miscellany; 

our tongues 

fuzzing over, 

turning gray-green

from atrophy—

by which you'd think

I might really mean 

apathy—but no, 

I don't, 

sadly.

BEYOND ME

Decades now, 

the leaves 

have been whispering

in the waxing, 

then waning winds

of acceptance,

but still as yet 

can't translate  

the fathomless—

still can't tell me 

what 

you meant. 

THIS TOO

          The heaventree of stars hung with 

          humid nightblue fruit.

               -James Joyce

Gazing up, one sees 

that burnished 

heaventree of stars—

feels its light 

not with the inference  

of thought, but 

that immediacy 

usually reserved 

for the heart—and still 

may call the night 

sky uniformly 

black, 

the universe empty, 

impassible,

and dark.

RECOMPOSED

Just ask 

these shadows 

lagging behind us: 

there's no such thing 

as forethought 

or freedom of design; 

everything we realize

is a light blast 

that's been red-shifted—

every action, a super 

massive black 

hole scrambling 

to crush, then reprise 

our imperative 

past. 

SURFEIT

By November, 

wet maple leaves 

plaster the fence—

each one

the color of fired 

clay, or flesh—

each one so insistent, 

so barbed 

and particular—and yet, 

much like every 

fiercely blazoned 

universe out there: 

divisible 

by billions, if not 

by the infinite;

in the eye

of an observer, identical 

to its neighbor. 

SMALL COMFORT

It's getting dark 

early now, 

like the evening 

you died—

the evening 

you finally 

were finished 

with dying. 

THE PROCESS

One poem 

is an ordinarily  

busy street,

uncannily deserted 

on Christmas Eve; 

Another is us 

from the future,

viewed through 

a foggy plate glass,

hugging strangers.

But we trust 

these odd strings

of familiar things

whose swings 

mean so little,

yet explain

to a tee 

the phyiscs 

of our psychical need 

to careen. 

URBAN HYMN

Sing until 

you lose me, 

metropolitan muse

in distant clamor 

of car horns, leaf 

blowers, jackhammers 

of a city without borders 

in a dream 

without language—

no audience 

to agonize, no narrator 

to refuse 

the onrush of nameless 

and unrecognized 

protagonists; 

distract such that I 

can't tell particular 

from huge

and lose track 

of who's who in the flux 

of this deluge.

WILL THIS BE ON THE TEST?

Electrons, 

which may or may not 

be said to exist 

(depending on the context), 

nonetheless will jumpskip 

from orbit to orbit 

spooking the nucleus 

and shooting off energy 

which we feel 

in the audience 

as we witness 

the experiment 

as—

dread, 

purpose,

or suspense?

* 

Given that 

wherever there is growth 

there is always a scar 

at the center, 

is the inverse 

also correct? 

Can you hijack a metaphor 

and run it in reverse? 

What color bird 

or 

what species 

of flower 

could stand 

for the opposite 

of power? 

*

With quick lines, I gesture 

toward 

narrative thrust 

with vigor and 

plausible 

nonchalance—even though, 

like you, I am 

just passing through.

Incongruously authentic, 

retroactively secure, 

I am the flesh 

made word; 

designer 

of the game. 

Pleased to meet you.

Guess my name.

FALL POEM

There are afternoons 

when late October 

feels like it might stay forever;

when sunlight itself 

is enchanted by 

the unplumbed color of the season 

and seems 

to want to hang from trees 

like crystal chandeliers, 

stretched and slowed 

by the fairy tale 

of coming cold 

til it lingers 

a little too long 

in midair—

like Cinderella did 

in the opulent glare 

of such an otherworldly ball—

with no ride home 

planned, and 

for no reason at all. 

WELL, ACTUALLY

What is it that provokes 

any clean 

quiet morning 

in all its perspicacious 

stillness 

to ripple 

and dither into 

just another day? 

Is energy 

just coiled matter 

which has not yet 

unfurled itself 

and deigned to appear? 

As I ask, I notice I'm not even 

looking for the answer, 

because if there's 

one thing I know, it's that 

by the time I'm done inquiring, 

every word 

is abandoned 

like a seashell 

on eternity's shore—

everything we know 

is gradually 

something else entirely, 

without any 

reference to lesser 

or more. 

REVELATION

Apocalypse 

doesn't come 

all at once—

there are packets. 

This is not 

despondence 

any more than 

it is fact. 

For truth 

is but a parasite 

on is-ness, 

says the prophet;

a virus 

which preys 

upon life's need 

for correspondence. 

PRIME MOVER

Each morning, 

I wonder 

where does it come from—

the intangible breeze 

that whispers in 

each morning 

to dissolve with its 

cool kiss the last 

of my dream logic 

and flirt 

just a bit with 

my diffident curtains? 

The uneven 

surface heating

due to elevation

which leads to 

pressure differentials 

on the far side of the planet.

But no, say my 

cold toes, that can't 

be the answer, can it? 

It's far too impersonal 

to have clambered 

through my window—and, 

to be the provocation 

that I need, 

far too certain. 

RANSOMWARE

Caucused 

atop the gray 

cornices at dawn, 

the silhouettes 

of crows 

argue with conviction 

the politics 

of lonesome 

as a trait 

or an affliction. 

* 

For my purposes,

down 

at the simulation's 

street view

(not to mention 

yours 

one level lower 

as a reader), 

it doesn't matter 

if this image 

is truth 

or fiction. 

*

Incepted in 

the latest version—

a stealth software update, 

a poetic snatch 

of code inserted—

you are programmed 

to imagine

 

that things 

could be worse:

these scavenger birds 

could yet be 

upgraded—

persuaded 

to peck stars 

from the skies 

of your thoughts 

like they were the all-

seeing eyes 

of the universe. 

WHITE FLAGS

Desperately petaled, 

these stalwart 

fall roses, 

worn and besotted 

as the clabbered 

lumps of cloud 

which now blot 

and bleach the sky 

on an undulating basis,

soon will have 

no prouder choice 

than to laugh 

as they—and my 

conflation of security 

with stasis—

crumple in the direction 

of momentum 

and collapse. 

TERMS AND CONDITIONS

We think we've got people 

all figured out—

then, 

we get to know them. 

Narcissists, 

philanthropists,

punctilious, 

cold—all of us 

are jars 

whose lids won't open.

But of course, 

from the harsh angles 

our distance 

imposed

the first time 

we nodded,

shook hands, 

or spoke, 

so much of this 

was obvious

that we confused ourselves 

on purpose. 

PRANAYAMA

In order to keep 

the words 

from repeating, 

I concentrate 

on the scenery 

of breathing. 

On mottled gray 

beaches, I watch 

with some relief 

as, one by one, waves 

take the place 

of one another—

each doomed one 

briefly assuming 

it's the first 

and the last 

to reach land—

and the best—

before relinquishing 

its grasp, ceding chattels 

to the next. 

And as I breathe out 

and in again, a fresh 

thought is expressed: 

I'm glad I'm not 

the only one 

who does that.

THE FIRST MYSTERY

Always in the beginning, 

we are told, 

there was something. 

But god 

is not some token 

or utterance 

to be spoken; 

rather, it's a faintly

indescribable feeling.

It's never hitting skip 

on the stars 

as they're wheeling

to get past 

the treacle and on 

to the good part; 

it's perpetually 

forgiving 

all now living 

for their coarse  

and unflattering 

imitation

while constantly 

fighting the screaming

temptation 

to fall madly in love 

with ideas, 

not people; 

it may sit on the tongue 

more palatably 

than sweetness, 

yet somehow 

more absinthian, 

more bitterly than bliss; 

it's saying out loud 

to no one: 

well wonders never cease! 

And: so what 

if there isn't a word 

for this? 

HOW TO MAKE GOD LAUGH

We plan days

like our lives 

are a game 

to be won. 

But strategy 

won't boost our luck—

not even a little.

Ruination 

is a certain 

as the punchline 

to a setup;

it's just

the length of our stay 

of execution, 

and the build-up to 

and the nature of

that devastation 

which beguile us 

like riddles

for just long enough

to keep us 

from asking 

the obvious questions.

ONLYS

What the mystic 

poet implies

is true: 

everything's 

connected. 

Only—

nobody knows how 

or why,

and not in a way 

that would

gratify you.

*

As the sun shifts downward, 

the little light 

that's left 

is the light 

that's most precious. 

Is that 

what is meant 

by clarity? 

Seeing 

that we're not seeing 

(only after we've lost it)

that fleeting 

bit

we're left with? 

*

If pleasure 

is only

the release 

of built-up tension, 

then once in a while,

I'm not too afraid 

to die.

THE PROBLEM OF INDUCTION

The same way 

in which sunbeams 

streaming blithely 

through clouds 

are taken to augur 

some sweetening 

of the future, 

so too 

are children 

taught through sheer 

repetition 

to cry out 

for the bygone 

the way 

the old gods cried 

for nectar.

* 

At the faintest blush

of the winter season, 

the heedless way 

gray geese careen 

overhead 

would seem 

to suggest 

that there's 

no such thing 

as treason. 

And yet, 

far be it from us 

to cite abandonment 

of instinct;

we prefer to dream 

of filaments 

connecting 

one thought 

to the next. So,

things fall apart—

this much is easy 

to accept;

the hard part is 

to repeatedly guess:

in what sequence? 

For what reason? 

ANNIHILATION PHASES

I'm so vein, I probably think 

this next thought 

is about me.

*

Now I'm so present, 

I probably think 

this world is just 

the sum of all 

the facts I have—minus 

my intentions. 

*

Now I'm so numbed 

by the irony 

of presence, 

it's hard 

to locate such 

displaced rage; 

from this distance, 

it's hardly efficacious 

to complain—

it's hardly judicious 

to call them 

my aches. 

FAREWELL SUMMER

In the recently 

neglected garden, 

the bleached-out dregs 

of zinnias sag.

Even the veteran 

pollinators,

who still cling to old dreams

in a few sunny patches, 

though they dimly recall 

fecundity's texture, 

are listless,

uninspired—as if 

no longer defenders

of some lost grand empire 

or its edifying, now all-

but-forgotten flag. 

DERRING-DO

If you're 

reading this, 

you're plummeting

swiftly 

through midair;

each word is

a cloud 

which first sounds 

like a mattress

til you blow 

right through it 

without slowing down.

But the good 

news is

there's a turn

at the end 

which is rushing up

to center itself

under your fall—

not with 

the pillow

of relevant info, 

but the small 

silk-soft 

pleasure 

of knowing 

in an instant 

that a poem

can support you

after all. 

SIMULATION THEORY DEBUNKED

The thing 

about our blandness 

is: it's bafflingly 

excessive. 

Like fictive hoards 

and digital legions 

of viruses, ghosts, 

angels, demons,

we admit 

to the possession 

of indistinct features—

but still

ten billion of us 

feel so mournful 

and desperate 

at this realization 

that in no sense 

could we ever be 

meaningfully convinced 

that we're 

figments—

or ciphers 

whose curves dance 

on pages—or bits 

of some childish-

ly alien intellect

which transmit 

their zettabytes 

of light-

hot confusion, but 

don't really exist.

TESTIMONY

As if turning on 

and off 

and on again 

was a baptism 

or holy communion, 

I saw

the city lights hesitate, 

hold back, 

deliberate 

and melt 

into the twilight, 

lending gravity 

to all space, 

frivolity 

to time. 

*

Alas, no description

is so well-formed

that it doesn't come 

with tight

little sparks 

between words—

electron gaps 

that cannot be constricted

but which cause one 

to wonder,

as one's default image 

of sky is recovered 

what on Earth 

happened there? 

And by what light 

was it depicted? 

THE COMEDOWN

For just a few 

seconds on a 

long enough drive, 

the sky is 

purple blue—

the clouds, 

a still plateau 

of dark but 

luminous folds—

not unlike 

the view

of a rose 

from the inside 

a day or two past 

the thrill

of full bloom.

LET'S PRETEND

When you were young, 

did you ever 

make-believe 

you were a loving mother? 

Was a wonderful 

mother ever 

not the perfect cover

for the God 

whom you adored 

but whose name 

must not be mentioned?

Back then, 

did you wonder 

how a few scraps 

of bread 

and a muttered amen 

could stand in 

for your redemption? 

What about now? 

Is a tender parent still 

a punitive savior?

How does one thing 

come to mean

another? 

TAMING THE TONGUE

Do you say 

you prefer 

music 

without words—

placid ponds

without their ripples—

innocent 

and easy 

to guileless 

and simple? 

What if

there is no pond 

on this Earth

which is deep enough

to conceal 

from our trawls 

the worst 

synonym 

for profundity? 

In that case 

(or in any), 

how do you explain 

your refusal 

to engage 

with the roiling pot 

of your least

attentive thoughts 

to your most 

demanding company? 

COMPLICATIONS

How is it 

that one sentence 

can both begin 

and end 

in the present?

Equivocally 

speaking, the past 

has been evacuated; 

the future will 

allude us.

There is, in effect, 

nowhere left 

on the page

to aim 

and vent 

our indefinite, 

limitless rage. 

*

We've all heard 

of suffering for fashion, 

but what happens 

when you become 

too attached 

to an impression—

a light mirage 

which is high-functioning,

a mascot 

of the marketing genius 

pulling out all the stops? 

Accommodating 

or not, 

every translucent bubble 

sooner or later 

pops. 

 

MATTERS OF INDIFFERENCE

To be conscious 

is to notice 

that you're going 

through the motions.

But to glimpse

from whom those motions 

originated 

in the first place—

that is a whole different 

kind of recognition. 

*

No matter what, light 

will always take 

the shortest 

path to its 

destination. 

Setting aside 

the whole quagmire 

of design, 

what does this say 

about living 

in the moment?

*

By a radiant 

glow, I see you 

clothed in the music 

which, both raised 

as Christians, we used 

to call dissonance—

naked, that is, 

and with 

parodies of permanence 

racing down the infinite 

lengths of your skin;

"Enjoy the journey," 

for instance, 

tattooed sarcastically 

backwards across your 

unlimited face.

WHITE FLAG

It would figure—

that the cost

of our endurance 

is our nimbleness 

and vigor—

and the price 

of eternal 

vigilance is 

faintness 

and fatigue. 

When we "dare 

to dream big," 

it's a long walk

from end to end, 

so heaven forgive us 

if we deign to sit

and rest a minute

and watch 

(a little jealous) 

the way rain puddles 

in light wind

tend to shiver 

off their edges 

bit by bit, 

til they cease 

to exist. 

THINK TWICE, IT'S ALRIGHT

I used to get annoyed 

with a faulty 

bulb that flickers; 

its stammers 

were advertisements 

for deficiency and lack.

But I've gradually grown 

used to all its 

wavering and dithers—

such maneuvers 

remind me that it's 

perfectly alright 

to stutter 

and to hesitate, to cut 

my lags some slack—

that it might be 

as natural 

as visible light 

that I'd like

to hedge 

my bets a bit,

or hold 

the slightest 

something back.

USELESS CONFESSIONS

Once I dreamt 

I played a bit part—

just a face 

on the street—

in someone 

else's dream. 

No lines to read 

or spotlight 

to hog, no interior 

monologue. 

to be "one of them" 

felt like nothing 

at all—which,

in and of itself,

was a massive

relief. 

*

Those people who, 

in the wake 

of a tragedy 

say to their 

loved ones

there are no words—

I hereby admit 

I am moved 

by that statement 

to astonishing flights 

of jealousy.   

* 

If everything we do 

is music, 

then 

sometimes I don't 

care one bit 

which of us is left 

still twisting 

and which of us 

now is the 

turbulent wind. 

NO BIG LOSS

Storefront 

by condo, 

season after season, 

the city 

simply scrapes the bottom,

remakes—and then 

renames itself. 

I wish I were thus:

industrious—no, 

ruthless—

no pity 

in me for 

intensely loved 

flavors of the month I 

used to be.

EVENTUALLY

The way even the most 

prodigious waves 

exhaust themselves 

on beachheads 

crowned 

with obdurate limestone—

as if, in the face 

of this bellicose present, 

the past 

would somehow 

capitulate—

it is too hard, 

after all the repetition 

mockingly called 

a journey, 

to trace back 

and locate the source 

of the ache. 

Chancing on reflections

half-erased in 

shallow tide pools, 

it is too hard 

for anyone 

not to feel displaced. 

TO BE CONTINUED...

One thought 

while driving 

down I-55 

pertains 

to the poetry 

of single lines: 

airliner 

contrails, old 

telephone wires—surely 

unbrokenness 

must be 

no accident; 

certainly 

somewhere, 

my veins 

must have rhymes.

SCIENCE V. RELIGION

The trick 

they will use 

to pique your interest is 

to frighten you: 

the world 

is a crapshoot 

because we don't know 

what will happen. 

Or else, it's 

a trash heap 

because we do know 

to a tee.

By way 

of response, 

you may pray 

or look askance. 

You may notice

how confusion 

is experienced 

out-of-body.

But it's best to take 

your chances, since, 

the thing is: 

so is certainty. 

CASE STUDY

You say—by itself,

no constituent 

means anything; 

one line alone 

can't surprise you 

or rhyme.

But show some respect 

for the obduracy 

of atoms;

have some humility 

for the speciousness 

of time—

for each breath you take 

is a cross section 

of significance;

each water droplet 

is an instance 

of sky.

I AIN'T AFRAID OF NO GHOSTS

          "I’m Nobody! Who are you?"

               -Emily Dickinson 

Unconscionable, yes, but 

where's the tragedy 

in death? 

By what trick of light 

may the forever 

of after 

be glimpsed, however

slightly, in the mirror 

of before?

If we're no one 

while we're here, 

by what rights do we fear 

this kind of non-swimming 

through the ocean 

of no more, or 

the flowers of the intangible 

which bloom at night 

by the banks of the unconscious? 

Valuelessness 

must have 

no valence, at best:

nothing more 

to nobody.

Ashes. Dust. Rest.

EXERCISE

Don't simply 

look, 

writer; look again

harder. Unsettle

and ply each

delimited moment;

attend 

every petal—you 

will live 

longer.

THE BIG PICTURE

It's true: 

the life within you 

may go on forever. 

You, 

however, 

will not be invited. 

*

Without even 

putting forth a modicum 

of effort, 

the human eye 

can see across 

vast distances. 

Is that what passes 

for insight 

at present? 

You call that clever? 

You call passivity

enlightened?

*

Congratulations: heaven 

exists.

It is a state 

of consummate equivalence.

In it, 

there's no difference 

between remembering 

and being remembered,

between loss 

of all motor function 

and making 

a fist.

GAINSAID

What piques our interest 

if not 

contradictions—

the imagination going 

off-roading adjacent 

to abysses? 

But the landing only sticks 

if we learn 

to split the difference 

between lavish 

and sufficient—

between generous 

and precise. 

In that case, 

The one-way 

road separating 

spacious 

from its opposite 

may then be the site 

of a Disneyland 

parade—that is: 

both 

purgatorial and pure 

entertainment. 

GENERAL RELATIVITY

Let mass 

be defined as 

that feeling 

you get 

when you push

against the boundaries, 

when you tug 

at the contours 

of your own 

nothingness.

*

Energy is simply 

the repetitive 

performance 

of the one trick 

you know how to pull

off so well

that nobody 

realizes 

you don't believe it 

at all.

*

To square the speed 

of light, you'd need

a galaxy 

of grackles—

each darting

while exchanging mock-

insults with the others—

so quick,

agitated, and turbulently 

smothered

that there's no chance 

of knowing 

how the whole thing

got started.

ELEMENTS OF DESIGN

The way 

the rebellious 

wind runs wild 

inside its enclosure 

of stainless 

steel chimes 

is, to the passerby, 

its own kind 

of speech act, 

stopping

at nothing—dying 

to remind 

that even 

that levity we

misconstrue as freedom,

even pure emptiness 

has corners 

in the mind.

ANY BODY

When was the last time 

you refused 

your own reflection? 

when was the last time 

you self-identified 

as pretty? 

* 

You want to believe 

ideologies 

are parodies—

that the goal is:

make the most

of each constraint 

imposed. 

But, like all 

living subjects

bound and bordered 

by grim logic,

you cannot stop 

compulsive attraction 

of neurons 

to belief.

And in time, 

you find yourself 

relieved 

to be identified

 

as the object 

of ongoing 

hostage negotiations—

between the law 

of falling bodies 

and the trifling weight 

of light. 

DITTO

We say: "I get

the feeling," 

as if that feeling

pre-existed.

But even our most intimate,

and antique experiences,

when recollected, 

are nothing 

if not

counterfeit heirlooms—

ersatz treatises, 

newly minted. So, 

either, to god's eye,

there's no such thing 

as proper order, 

or else—come to think of it, 

probably 

it did.

AUTUMN RHYTHM

Ethereal mounds

of aromatic asters,

hardly fairly compensated 

for all that they could

(but do not) say—

for spinning 

sunlight into sugar 

all dwindling day

without so much as even 

honoring the urge 

to glance up at god's 

time clock

or whistle while they work 

to pass the hours 

faster.

SIMPATICO

I'm in love 

with the way

we both get sick 

and tired 

of all the arguments

in such perfect 

synchrony 

and (who would 

believe it?)

to the

very same 

degree. 

EMPIRE OF THE POSSIBLE

In the kingdom 

where I live, excess 

is kitsch,

and sentimental expressions 

are the stuff 

of class revolt. 

On the razor-thin 

line between "why not" 

and "please don't," 

perfectly balanced, 

is built the palace 

in which I sit—

declining to throw in 

with either side 

of the divide, yet 

unassailable as king 

of my own private 

nothing.

REVELATION

Question: 

What is the difference 

between something veiled

and something given?

between concealed 

and revealed?

The answer 

is always: I'll know it 

when I see it. 

*

Betrayal 

used to be grounds 

for rebellion; 

now, 

it's pure pleasure—

a fetishization 

of that which pre-exists;

evidence, 

perhaps, that even 

moments of possibility 

are rare 

and therefore coveted 

in a time of great

recession. 

*

You say you want more proof?

Look up—

In this high-

traffic area, 

state-of-the-art

security cameras 

are always recording,

but nobody 

ever has time

to watch.

TO THE VESSEL

To the slate gray 

mug, which sports 

a faded Les Mis logo, 

resting always 

to my right on the knotty 

table by the window:

yours is a presence 

like non other in my life—

a sturdy, heavy, 

shining silence,

content to hold space 

for the voids 

in my appetites—and though 

relentlessly accommodating, 

you cannot

contain multitudes

or keep me organized—

you are pleased 

to be hollow, 

you are wholeness 

in situ—

and yet

still, you invite me each day 

to complete you. 

DECONSTRUCTION

          Thus says the Lord, "Set your house in order, 

          for you shall die; you shall not recover."

               -2 Kings 20:1

We think of our selves 

as authentic 

phenomena: 

genuine miracles, 

as opposed 

to just multiples 

of the same few 

loaves and fishes. 

But identity 

is just so much

unpaid electioneering, 

and permanence 

is housework: every day—

the dishes!

THE WORST THING

That ruthlessly efficient 

and self-aware AI;

that conquering race 

of aliens whom are surely 

on their way—

the worst thing will be 

if they don't chuckle

at our jokes. 

Not because of the way 

in which certainty 

hinges on understanding, 

but because 

of how we laugh 

at what frightens us 

the most.

*

The morning after 

almost felt 

like a 

software update reboot—except, 

no tutorial 

to explain what was new 

or gentle invitations 

to update my system preferences. 

No, 

I am not lonely; yes, 

it is 

better like this: 

your absence 

continues 

to supplement 

my presence. 

WORD PROBLEMS

Given 

that my wildest dreams 

don't involve me— 

how difficult 

(to the decimal) 

would my soul be 

to kill?

Given 

that nature abhors 

a vacuum—

does that mean 

a hole 

must enjoy 

being filled? 

*

Show me any 

equals sign

and watch me 

equivocate.

Is solving 

more judicious 

than dissolving 

for X?

* 

As any addict 

can attest, 

there's no substitute 

for the real thing— 

I don't want to 

hurt anyone; 

I want to hurt 

you. 

NECESSARY AND SUFFICIENT CONDITIONS

If your innermost thoughts 

are a shot 

in the dark, 

then a poem 

is an ad hoc 

forensic investigation 

(though it's known 

a watched kettle 

never changes states,

and there's precious little 

justice to be sought 

from a syllogism):

residue

from the murder weapon 

will come back 

from analysis;

there'll be loads 

of air-tight evidence, still

no closure 

for the victim. 

RUPTURE

We talk 

in mannered speech 

about how 

space 

goes on forever—as if 

the distance between 

our pores weren't increasing 

in tandem 

with those galaxies; 

as if 

you and I weren't reading 

two different pages 

from the same book 

aloud, while 

estrangement took dictation; 

as if that "we" 

I just mentioned 

didn't exist 

as a precondition, but only 

as a variable 

which could simply be 

factored out 

of the equation. 

NEW COSMOGONY

On a safe-

harbor planet 

in the in-

hospitable firmament, 

the actual wonder 

is that 

none of this 

is miraculous. 

God is our little 

semantic gap 

between the real

and the authentic;

the devil's our predilection  

to self-report 

when we start 

to feel sick 

at the fact

of statistics; 

and the angels are 

the pitiably numerous 

experiences 

and objects 

we haven't got 

names for yet. 

CALLING AN AUDIBLE

Every tragedy 

I narrowly manage 

to slip past—hell, 

every new morning— 

is a fresh 

set of downs. 

*

The present is only 

a quick time-out 

in the clincher match 

between future 

and past. 

And if you pause 

the broadcast, 

there I am 

in the stands: 

freezing, 

but still mouthing 

hi mom 

at the camera. 

* 

The objective, 

they are always saying 

in the locker room, 

is to win this thing.

But the purpose, 

we're too galvanized 

to admit, is 

to keep playing. 

DAN DELIONS

How am I like 

these frowzy-

headed weeds

after they have gone 

to seed? 

In lieu of Browning's 

more famous enumerations, 

let me just say—

bitter at the root 

(and not much 

better at the leaves); 

ruined and exalted both 

by the littlest wind—

that is: purpose-built 

to be blown-off,

always nodding, 

even when I 

don't agree, and 

all too easily 

carried away.

MILLION TO ONE

As I attempt to 

form these words, 

bidding you 

to shape these sounds, 

both of us 

might as well try 

to ride 

the clouds.

The way nouns 

act out;

the way verbs 

break bad

from the herd 

and skip town—

you and I, 

reader, 

we are lucky 

to find ourselves 

flush-faced, 

doubled-over, 

clutching our sides, 

nauseously exultant, 

shaken but alive 

at the light-

headed end of wild 

metaphor's ride.

UNDERSTUDIES

Just as we pretend 

we're not 

a bumper crop 

of objects—

not flesh-

pots studded 

with knuckles and knots—

not clots of extremities

wound around a vacancy—

not performative 

failures of symbols 

to mean—

so too 

do the words we might 

use to express this 

all sing and tap-dance 

a little too 

enthusiastically

in an attempt to drown

out the deep

throb of unbelief; 

in lieu of clean

embodiment 

of recognition's 

idling engine, 

they strut 

and fret their hour

upon the stage—

they practice

and pose

and preen.

A HISTORY OF THE FUTURE

How is it 

that time 

both flattens and 

distinguishes things? 

(Picture your whole life,

flat as a flapjack—

yet distinct 

from every other one 

in the stack.)

*

How is it 

we find time 

to watch parodies, reboots, 

remakes, tributes? 

To endlessly 

grade them, from 

vile to entertaining—

that is: 

after a while, all pretty 

much the same.

*

All the talking heads on television

trying to define the apocalypse.

As if 

the luckiest among us 

wouldn't come 

to miss everything;

As if cessation 

would be something 

recognizable,

and lack 

could ever happen 

on terms 

that were ours. 

SELF-LOVE

Sometimes, a bug 

is a gimmick—

not a feature; 

sometimes, a facet

is really 

an erasure; 

sometimes I'm at peace 

with all the wrong things,

and angry 

with all of the things 

I've been wrong about. 

For example, 

for the letter 

of the law: I've been 

a pushover; 

for its spirit, 

on the other hand: bland-

ly apathetic.

And of course, 

it feels good 

to feel bad—

which feels good—

which is, 

in turn, 

concerning—

so it's all 

just copacetic. 

FISH IN WATER

It is only 

on that sun-spangled shore 

called the future,

where the currents 

which have given us 

purpose up til now 

finally run aground 

on the obdurate sand— 

and 

when the consequences 

of our current actions 

have been 

fully unfurled 

like the wet 

and great wings 

of some terrible heron—

that we'll come to understand,

just for an instant,

before coherence

takes a bow,

not 

what we know 

at that terrible end, but

what was going on 

right now.

SEQUENCES

You think 

you've got 

no place to go—but then, 

what could it mean 

to go anywhere 
"later?"

Leaving 

is as meaningless 

as coming in this 

present-tense, 

and the future 

is not a location 

in space. 

* 

You hear a robot voice saying 
"caution: step back," 

and, eager 

as you've always been

to harmonize a melody, 

you behave 

like all of the waves 

which comprise you 

and do exactly 

as you're told.

*

Often, you are struck 

with the relentlessness 

of the notion 

that something always 

must come next. 

You don't know 

what that something 

is, but 

if you squint just right 

with the eye 

in your mind, 

you can see 

a blurry text 

which takes 

the approximate shape 

of faith.

GRIEF

On a 

bad day, 

the deep feeling 

of irretrievable loss—

a good one, 

that deep 

loss's 

irretrievable feeling.

DARK ENERGY

"It is an undeniable fact 

that the universe 

is expanding,"

the scientist said 

while pounding 

her fist on the dais. 

"Space itself 

is growing 

exponentially—it's just 

difficult for us to see,

since we're made 

of that stuff 

which increasingly 

quickly rushes 

off in all directions."

And at first, I thought:

this makes such 

little sense—west 

cannot stretch 

and grow farther 

from east. (But then again,

something so outrageous 

would be needed 

to explain 

how it is you and I 

could have grown 

so far apart, 

while the distance 

between us hasn't changed 

in the least.)

LEARNING TO LAUGH AT YOURSELF

I am probably far 

from the first 

to discover 

the codependent marriage 

between despondency 

and humor.

Perhaps this is why 

we are, by far, our worst

eye-witnesses—

and why information "silos"

don't have anything 

on mirrors.

The sight of this body 

"over there" and 

made flat 

still somehow strikes me 

as crass-

ly inappropriate; 

and even at the point 

when I'm no longer 

my worst enemy, 

I still reserve the right 

to smirk and pass 

on being an advocate. 

JAZZ RIFFS

Does the wish 

to be precise 

outlive 

this stilted, finite 

language?

Can an absence 

in the syncopation 

still 

be felt 

ahead of time? 

If so, where

in the bar

does the feeling 

occur? 

*

I don't believe 

for a minute 

in self-estrangement, 

no matter 

how much the lack

of encouragement 

hurts.

The perfume 

of truth 

has been liberally daubed 

on all of the homeliest 

words in these sentences, 

in hopes 

of bootstrapping tripe 

to blank verse;

but whatever I 

"meant to say" 

will have to suffice, 

since the alternative 

reading would sound

even worse. 

ANALYSIS PARALYSIS

The problem with 

shibboleths 

such as "and" 

and "or"

is that we're liable 

to get lost 

in the cosmos

of those forests.

And while we forage 

our best option 

in this thicket 

of comparisons, 

tallying up 

our preferences 

with notches 

on the branches, 

a stealth predator 

emerges 

from the cave

of Good Intentions,

and above us somewhere,

the carrion-bird-eye 

of Unanimity 

watches.

NOT THE END OF THE WORLD

This just in: there's a war 

going on—a war 

of attrition

with the fabric 

of reality.

And the battleground for it 

is a world all shot-

through 

with the heralds 

which we, in our darkest

minds, have yearned for. 

By way of retaliation, 

that world has convinced us

that the soul, 

as given, doesn't 

simply exist;

it must first be secreted, 

then searched for 

and earned.

And it isn't so pleasant 

to leave behind one's body—

though it's something 

like pure peace 

on Earth to return. 

ALADDIN SANE

Instead of demanding 

that he live 

forever

(against the rules 

anyway, to hear it from 

its servant's mouth), 

the unlikely true master 

of the power 

of that lamp 

merely rubbed it 

gently as he wished 

under his breath 

for a swift but lasting 

end to his perennial 

fear of death.

THE SHORT POEM

Like a wink of the eye 

it departs 

as it arrives; 

it's an opening gambit,

sans the tedium 

subsequent

to the knock-em-down, 

drag-em-out grudge match 

which follows it.

But it surely isn't 

some boldly 

unsinkable Titanic;

it's more like

a kayak 

which cannot be tipped 

because it's small enough 

to fit between 

the waves 

of all our lives—scanty, 

yet unflappably 

demanding: it survives.

MARKET VOLATILITY

Shapely runes 

I gather 

with such

passion every morning, 

by evening, speak 

a language 

I no longer 

understand. 

THE TRAGIC HERO SOLILOQUIZES

Not infrequently, there are evenings

when every light 

is green 

on the bleary 

return-trip 

from the place I was meant to be—

which is a way I have

of knowing 

that I'm a whole universe,

but I always, 

impossibly, seem to be trapped 

inside another universe. 

SUMMER BREAK

Finally, the sound 

of children

flooding the post-rain park, 

squealing 

at earthworms, eager 

to learn things.

ODE ON THE LACK OF A GRECIAN URN

I don't know 

about quietness, 

but I'm sure

when formlessness 

divorces its brides, 

it never says

goodbye; 

it just whispers

an empty

see you later.

Okay, so

maybe beauty 

isn't truth,

but sometimes, it's 

truth's and my 

mediator.

GHOSTWRITTEN

Instead of composing,

I've been sitting 

in the kitchen, 

listening 

for silence, but hearing 

myself think

that just 

doing nothing 

is a kind of action,

and action 

is a kind

of music.