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.

JOB DESCRIPTION

Is your hobby 

to take 

note of things?—

is that phosphorescent sheen 

of night clouds rimming 

city skies 

greener 

or bluer than the evening 

before? 

If the time it takes 

for the furniture 

to grimace, or 

for every flower 

to earn its

own word—

and each word, 

all the time 

it requires 

to mean—

then, you might qualify 

as our key change, 

as our modulator,

as that flat sixth 

which transmogrifies the mode 

of the day;

redresser 

of all 

status quos, recoverer 

of songbirds—

over 

and over again, 

but always

in some 

new way.

SELF-DEFENSE WEAPONS

We all like 

to think we've 

closed the book 

on such studies, but 

could it be 

that, evolutionarily, 

the "purpose" of these 

tongues was 

not so much 

to speak 

as to 

tunnel themselves

firmly 

into our cheeks

as we 

effortfully cultivated 

a relationship 

with our melancholy 

which allowed us 

as a species 

to never mean 

what we feel,

to feel only

what we know,

and worst (read: most 

advantageous)

of all—to never know 

what that means?

DELIMITED

It's just as I thought: 

this evening's 

dim tide,

mauve-gold and 

unfolding
gradually before me, 

at last reveals 

not bewitched bliss

but tranquility—

to be just one term

of a sprawling 

equation—

to humbly read 
proofs until 

glumly convinced

that absolute 

anything 
does not exist.

QUICK HITS

As the distance

increases, all images 

dissolve themselves—

all objects, 

in the big 

bang, white hot 

mania 

of their expansion, 

are spun into the beatific 

clichés of dime-

store mysteries. 

Take that distant 

undulating 

scramble 

of pigeons, for instance;

 

to witness it 

hurtle 

toward cheap abstraction, 

like a cut-rate 

cigarette, is  

still my small pleasure—although

to not comprehend 

what the purpose 

or goal is 

still my great 

privilege.

NIGHTMARE

One by one, but soon

in multiplying 

throngs,

our words 

grab experiences, 

hold them down, 

crack them wide

open, and feast upon their 

contents. 

No one had told us 

they were so strong.

Yet we fail 

to connect this 

to the zombie 

apocalypse we'd 

read about; 

so we go right 

on talking, 

doomed, like 

nothing's even wrong. 

LATE STYLE

Now, as then, 

we write essays—op-eds.

Only, now 

that we aren't being 

graded on them, we must 

cash-out our paychecks 

and get numb 

to feel correct.

But, 

worse than 

"not working," 

we no longer find it

necessary. 

*

What's left 

when the symbols 

we once held 

hostage 

refuse to validate us,

other than a sense 

of satisfaction 

which our children 

find embarrassing?

*

One electron, 

it's been shown,

will emit  

its own photons. 

Another electron 

swallows them 

up again.

The world is 

the world; we have had 

no effect. 

BUCKLE UP

I have held forth 

before, of course, 

about my clambering 

into the car—

the weapon 

on wheels—

the metal machine—

the loud suit 

of armor—called language 

and imperiously putting 

the pedal to the floor. 

But 

what I hadn't 

mentioned earlier 

was that I

never learned 

to steer, 

so that renegade DeLorean  

just excursions 

where it wants, 

and I'm frightened 

a little 

to be its servant 

from inside it—

less like a storyteller 

mowing down his readers, 

and more like 

a hapless country squire 

who used to dream always 

of becoming a knight 

but never 

of having to go 

to war.

PERSONIFICATION

The way the light 

by which I

write is 

elemental—

but in no sense 

compulsory. 

The way the wind 

wends through birch trees 

to buffet me in 

short sleeves 

at this spot 

on the planet

on this particular instant, 

but never 

can be said to have 

properly had a beginning. 

Perhaps this 

is what we mean 

by essential:

a thing like hunger

which never was 

invented, yet

comes to us unbidden,

grabs hold 

of the void in us firmly 

by the handle, 

 

and fills it 

to the brim.

HEAD-ON

After everyone who smiles 

when they say your name 

has died—

after every insincere 

prophet out there

eye-witness-testifies—

after the government 

files are 

declassified 

and you learn, 

as the tide 

turns, that God 

was never 

on your side—then 

you may know 

how the horror film 

heroine feels: 

like the black hole 

at the center 

of the universe,

or the last one 

which vicissitude has 

deigned to leave alive—

not out of grace 

or compassion, 

but as a plot line,

as test 

of her capacity 

to look head-on

at the epiphany 

as it dawns in her mind 

that, this whole time, 

the calls have been 

coming from inside. 

INDEPENDENCE DAY

Cool morning, 

for July;

white dew intensifying 

scent off the pines.

No more 

tapped mines as 

relationship metaphors;

silence 

is general—freedom 

is mine. 

WELCOME TO MY MASTERCLASS

Just know this: 

a certain chill 

is essential.

An iciness, 

wherever it's 

applied, 

will act as a signal 

to bring blood 

to that place.

In just the same 

way, you can't 

pontificate 

or ramble; 

you must write 

with restraint 

before your 

audience 

will assemble

or any latent 

meaning can begin 

to radiate. 

MUSEUM PIECE

How cruel 

that the futile, over time, 

becomes the natural—

that barbarism, 

give or take a few 

millennia, grows canonical. 

Temples burn 

and cave paintings fade, 

but 

something harsh 

and unusual 

remains in their material—

some residue in the ash 

of our past inhumanity

yearns to be discovered.

And when, at last, 

that savagery's 

unearthed, 

lifted 

and placed under glass 

on display, 

we pay 

in cash, and we form 

a neat queue 

to view for ourselves 

how little 

has changed. 

DISLIKE

It's a thrill we feel 

deep in our bones, this 

self-loathing.

For once, we are

at one. For once, 

we are part of something—

we are part of 

the problem; 

we are wolves

in wolves' clothing, 

and we hunt our own

revulsion—not 

with a fury, 

or even 

as a joke, but 

because we're so 

engrossed by vulnerability 

exposed 

that we long to catch 

up with our goldbricking

souls

and hold them so close

that they choke.

PROP POEM

Relax, dear 

reader, you don't 

have to stick 'em up; 

this poem's not 

fully-loaded like 

Leaves of Grass was—

this poem (compared 

to that one) is more like 

a cap gun.

You know how, 

sometimes, you feel braver holding

something in your hand, 

more for the look 

and the feeling 

than anything?

But it's safer

if you practice with 

something more synthetic 

as you toy 

with the idea

of hauling-off eventually 

and holding-up 

your audience with

something that's authentic. 

SOLITARY CONFINEMENT

I think I 

get it now: these bodies

aren't temples—

they are small

locked rooms, which 

we're doomed 

to get to know 

too well

after pacing them

in circles 

for forty years or more. 

Before long, we know

the placement 

to the millimeter

 

and relish 

the smell 

of every stained 

stick and nicked-

up corner of their furniture.

And soon, 

we become so at-one 

with all the clutter 

that we don't think 

to to clean 

or run a quick 

vacuum 

underneath it anymore,

because 

even though we 

can't function without it, 

we don't even know 

it's there.

LOOSE BITS

Relationships are gambles, 

and gamblers are unstable. 

But still, we covet 

the loose bits of one another 

and are greedy to collect them,

like the chips around a blackjack table. 

We think that we're entitled,

when really, we're impaired— 

like a judge who's only privy 

to one half of a conversation

between that love which is stable 

and that love which longs to flee—

between an insubstantial ghost 

and his ponderous machine—

between matter's gauche 

concreteness, 

and the beautiful 

abstraction 

of its conversion 

into energy.

TO THE DAY

Blooming as you do

from black to pale 

robin's egg blue, 

every new 

morning, you 

slide into view 

with the inevitable gravitas 

of the next boxcar 

at the crossing. 

And so enmeshed, 

so lost

are we dare who behold you 

within the ageless 

center of your 

unblemished perimeter, 

that we never even stop 

to wonder

what it is you're made of—

but it must be one 

single, solid, and exquisitely

machined material 

so easeful and 

ubiquitous 

that it cannot be mishandled; 

it can never be 

dropped, melted, frozen, 

thrown away—

and it's always 

the same (although 

continually replaced)—

and what's more, 

it must be 

ageless; 

for never does it seem to 

tarnish, achromatize,  

or rust. And of course, 

it could never be 

shaken off 

or lost, 

tallied-up 

and parceled-out, rejected

or explained. 

HUMANITIES

Many feel called 

to their families 

or occupations, 

but it's precious 

few, who, bereft 

of all certitude, 

will accept the fullest 

implications 

of leaving their home 

in the middle 

of a storm 

and wandering into 

a wide open field 

in search of their salvation. 

And it's there, 

amid the white- 

noise-hiss of rain 

and the terrible maw 

of a violent sky, 

that these precious few 

may find themselves 

compelled to count the seconds

between the quick 

and dead-silent forked 

tongue of lightning 

and thunder's 

booming rejoinder—

as if 

growing, by increments, 

closer to an answer

by getting farther away 

from their need

for explanations. 

NEITHER NOR

We're too fond 

of saying "rhyme 

or reason," 

as if 

those were the 

only two options,

when in truth, 

most feelings don't push 

either of those buttons. 

Most of the time, 

our deepest 

thoughts are not catchy; 

they neither instruct 

nor arrange themselves 

like seasons. 

We simply hear 

a mad blitz of phrases 

or helplessly watch 

as each image 

swims away—

another iridescent fish 

gliding deep 

through our mind's 

silent trenches, 

out of reach—

barely even 

contemplating 

that a third 

and more gripping kind 

of mattering is happening—

that perhaps

feeling, at its purest, 

neither needs 

to entertain

nor teach. 

LET ME KNOW

Remember that old riddle 

of Mick Jones 

and Joe Strummer—

should I stay, or 

should I go? 

Well, when I looked right 

in your eyes 

and posed it, imagine 

my bewildered 

surprise 

upon seeing my own 

reflected back at me 

in your whites 

as you carefully, 

charitably ruined me 

with the answer: 

Has no one 

ever told you? 

Don't you know? 

Our lives are not 

storylines; you 

can do both. 

ON FIRST ORDERING AVOCADO TOAST

Somewhere inside, 

you knew it 

from the start of this: 

buttered bread is

buttered bread;

someone's just

charged you double 

for the gauche 

decadence of 

all those extra vowels—

charged you 

triple, perhaps

for a charred, 

pockmarked carb 

and a fat source

that won't flow—

charged you 

probably 

quadruple, in fact

simply as a test, 

not of hunger, but 

of credulousness. 

And, due 

to the sunk cost 

of this one small 

indiscretion, you

have paid them. 

Now, looking back

from a certain, 

detached,

well-fed viewpoint, 

one could 

rightly ask: 

which one of you 

is the asshole?

TOTALLY BANANAS

Back when we

were firmer

and smoother, and 

more than a little 

ungainly, 

we didn't think

that we were lovely. 

We thought 

that so much 

malicious under-

ripeness 

was a burden 

to be spurned, 

and we longed to invest 

in maturity's soft- 

and sweetness . 

But now, looking back 

with greater 

poise—but also 

weakness—

we realize 

that the bruises 

of maturity come 

with a cost: 

we must have first broadcast 

our desire

to be consumed

the instant we found 

we were finished 

being green. 

SEAMY

After the last distant 

and longing clang 

of churchbell vesper 

song is diminished 

and fades, 

the able, charmed silence 

of twilight descends 

to swathe, in its 

shadow, half this gently-

tilting planet.

And then—out 

come the rats 

from the west 

to the east, 

from their dark wombs 

of nests underneath 

the parkways 

to raze our grand empire 

of Day to the street 

by reclaiming 

all our most thoughtless-

ly tossed 

post-dinner bags 

of warm trash 

as their feast. 

CONTRIVANCE

Beware words 

which at first appear 

open as the air, 

for even they 

must be mounted 

in some very particular frame, 

and are only meant 

to offer 

one particular point of view. 

It's hard to notice 

how subtly 

and slowly they accrue, 

until they're assumed 

to be ancient 

as the mountains

and self-evident 

as the sediment which 

constitutes our planet—but 

recall from past litanies 

of mistakes you've 

been engaged in

how a wall made of glass 

was still a wall 

nonetheless—and so, 

virtually any thought 

you might presume to be 

transparent as well

is potentially false—

and cruel—

and vindictive 

as a window 

in a prison cell. 

COMME IL FAUT

Howling down 

from the frozen and

desolate peaks 

of some ancient, sibylline   

mountain range, 

a proper wind—

by the time it meanders 

through the amber waves,

and cools,

for an instant

or two, all the impotent 

plains of the Earth—

decrescendos 

to a whisper,

much to the relief 

of its workaday 

fools and sinners. But 

much to the chagrin 

of its politicians 

and philosophers, 

who can't abide 

a whisper,

unless it's made

of words.

NO TAKE BACKS

Sometimes, saying "sorry" 

after the fact

is worse than 

not at all;

it can never correct 

the full extent

of the injustice,

and tends to leave

the aggrieved 

bereft 

of a most-pleasant 

fantasy of sweet 

revenge exacted. 

Moreover, 

such expungings are, 

at best, sacrilegious 

to the autocratic

enterprises of history 

and physics, 

both of which contend 

that every action, once taken, 

casts with a firmness 

the faultless exactitude 

of the world we live in, 

and it'd be a fate, 

not just worse, but  

more impossible than death 

if we ever endeavored 

to go back. 

PARTY TRICK

Most of the time, 

whenever I'm 

engaged, 

I find myself resisting 

an urge to slip away 

from whatever I'd 

begun to say. Although 

I know the art

of conversation 

is crucial, 

the sentence I'm dispensing 

feels more 

like a party favor—

like a school child's 

fortune-teller 

crafted out of paper—

an amusement flitted 

deftly from the pocket 

of my pants, 

first flapping, 

then unfolding before 

the eyes of my supporter 

as beguilement 

and suspense begin 

to mount in equal measure

toward the flimsy crescendo 

of one of several 

predetermined

points of order. 

ADVICE TO YOUNG ADULTS

To not act 

on passion would 

seem like a sin, but 

salvation's 

not about that—it's 

all your offhand 

choices and 

run-of-the-mill opinions 

which, at long last, 

coalesce into 

the voice of pure reason: 

every last advantage you have

will have to be abandoned, 

for, when all 

chained together, even they 

will constrain you. 

And you can't use a chain 

to pull your 

virtue, anyway; 

you must 

get behind and push it;

grow through sin—

slow as old Issa's 

young snail did;

take the levelest 

possible road 

to the top of this world's

tallest mountain. 

ADVICE TO YOUNG CHILDREN

Don't be too eager 

for the love you'll

be craving, but 

don't take what comes 

either, or you'll 

take it to your grave. 

It's just as important 

to speak your mind 

as it is to speak politely, 

but never say excuse me 

when I'm sorry's what 

you mean to say. 

And when the ones in charge 

begin to spurn you—

when they assure you 

you're dust,

and to dust you 

shall return,

only to then 

turn around and ask you

for your sympathy—

try not to laugh in their 

mortuary faces; 

just say 

I'm sorry 

before you turn 

and walk away. 

ADVICE TO NEW LOVERS

You probably don't 

have to cling 

to spontaneity; 

improvisation 

is easier 

than it looks.

Witness 

how the buckthorn slings 

its tendrils through the garden rocks. 

Every inch, 

every moment 

is a trim, haiku-like stanza 

about how 

boundaries, memory, 

money, love, family—

beauty, truth, 

and even death—all 

shall one day come 

to fail us,

not just suddenly, 

but thrillingly. 

ALT+SHIFT

You would think 

it would take an 

ayahuasca trip

or delirious 

vision on day six 

of a fast, but 

more often, you're 

drying dishes 

when you finally 

cotton-on: 

it's the 

tiniest of objects 

which really 

weigh a ton. 

The seed 

of a Riesling grape 

is the prototype 

for heaven; 

and God—just like 

Daedalus 

was condemned

to roam his maze—

God is that figure 

which never 

can be drawn: 

the pinprick 

of light

where all space 

and time 

came from—

the unphotographable 

inside of 

an electron. 

CHUTZPAH

Funny how 

the things we most 

want to know 

are the things we know 

we never can: 

when (and if) 

the universe began,

what made 

contrary Mary's

garden grow, and 

how long it will take 

our spectacular castles 

to crumble 

into sand. 

It's as if 

our brains 

think they can 

construct the answers  

from haphazard 

hints, red herrings, 

and coincidences.  

But perhaps this drive 

to aggrandize our ability 

reflects better 

on the doggedness 

of our hearts, which, 

even as blind batters 

before the pitcher 

of fate, still 

tap the plate and swing 

for the fences. 

DISSENSION IN THE RANKS

The great war 

of our selves

is fought 

part

against part.

Of our 

high marks 

and our base fears, 

we like to think 

it's night 

and day;

the contrast 

always seems clear, 

we say. Yet, 

if our souls 

know confederates 

on both sides 

of the line—

and lives 

must be lived 

in real time—then

when exactly 

does day end 

and night start?

THE TYRANNY OF PARSIMONY

If the one thing which 

Nature can't abide 

is a vacuum, then 

how is it possible 

that we abhor 

redundancy? 

Shouldn't we too 

embrace life's 

many multiplicities

which provide 

such good insurance 

for obliqueness 

and endurance? Instead, 

we fear variety

of experience 

because we think 

it might blur 

the unique;

we're convinced 

that bounty 

and strict repetition 

might obscure 

the one lonely 

and mythical angle 

from which Truth

can be glimpsed 

instead of just wrangled. 

DELIMITING FACTOR

Intellectually, we do not 

take issue

with finitude, 

but you'd have to be lonelier 

than a genius

ever could be 

to see how 

everything 

you're no longer doing 

constitutes an ending—

and every ending 

is a fortifying thread 

in the terminal shroud 

of death. But 

for what it's worth

death—only 

to these truly 

godforsaken, ironically—

no longer reads

like the opposite 

of life, but rather

like the inverse 

of a messy and difficult 

birth. 

TRANSGRESSION

To the robin 

pecking furiously 

at all the shriveled 

serviceberries:

you're the only one who was 

naive enough to swoop 

into this adolescent bush

and tap the last 

of your crazed energy 

to rob it 

of this meager feast.

The others wouldn't bother; 

they're so keen to queue 

at the neighborhood feeders. 

But though your 

payload pales to theirs, 

I bet the nectar's 

sweeter, since 

their great 

salvation was delivered 

and is shared—whereas 

your indiscretion 

is yours 

alone.

BOOBY PRIZE

That scratch 

inside your cornea; 

those pimples 

you deplore; 

the stiffness in your hips 

which you 

stoically ignore—it's like, 

long ago, 

your whole life

was a sweepstakes, 

a grand prize 

which you casually 

entered into the drawing for 

and were 

ceremoniously awarded;

but now, 

all the glamour 

and excitement 

have subsided, 

and you realize 

to your horror, 

just how hard 

you have to toil 

day after 

onerous day, just 

to afford it. 

FOR INSTANCE

Just for a minute, 

upon our first 

waking, 

when we are still 

silent, 

and the world is 

all light 

and mist and innocence—

that is the time 

when we know 

without knowing

the most profligate 

meaning of confidence. 

For what in the world 

is each as-yet-

untrodden morning 

but a bright, 

and an earnestly

spontaneous conversation? 

And somehow,

we think—

without the 

least hint 

or embarrassment:

if I just play it cool, 

I could 

easily insinuate 

this unsuitable 

body right-

smack in the middle of it. 

PSY-OP

Is it too strange to wonder 

which one

is worse: 

my vague dread of rain, 

or getting 

caught in the real thing? 

True, of the two, only 

one front comes 

suddenly, 

oblivious to my designs 

and my lack 

of protection—

only one poisons me 

with stings and slaps 

of ruthless cold

which seeps

from clammy clothes 

to bones. 

But still, of the two 

my apprehension

costs the larger fee, 

since, for all of its 

relentless

and savage machinations, 

at least the rain 

never rains 

inside me.

STANDPOINT EPISTEMOLOGY

Ironically, it's only 

the uncertainty 

which never changes; 

it keeps perfect 

pace with us, like horizons do

while driving:

never even swerving 

from our center 

of attention, 

but never for 

one second conceding 

to be caught. 

Does this conceit

intrigue you, 

or does it only leave you 

more distraught? 

Remember: 

the next thought you think 

could be your last,

and the answer 

that comes through 

may be 

addressed to you, 

but of course, 

perhaps

it may not. 

COMING OF AGE

Unfortunately, 

the contact high 

is temporary. 

Unfortunately, supplies 

are, by their very definition, 

limited. 

When we're born, 

so much light 

and pressure come 

flooding in, 

we cannot think

to grasp for the handle 

of anything.

But soon, we have 

no recollection 

of the bottomless; 

the infinitude of stars 

fits into our mouths 

like a fist.

Perfect darkness 

gets abstracted 

by the forceps 

of their language,

dissected with tweezers 

into the absence 

of our genius—as if 

learning to use 

a word 

such as fathomless 

was same as 

comprehending it.

THE RUB

It would seem by the time 

we become who we are,

we will be old enough 

that we might 

be no one—or worse 

and more 

accurately: nothing 

much to anyone. 

There may finally be 

questions we are

old enough to answer, 

but the young 

will not yet know enough 

to ask them, or care.

There'll be proverbs 

we've finally had time 

enough to memorize, 

or antics we'll dispense 

like ladle-fulls of vinegar 

 

from the trusty but 

shriveled-up cask 

of experience, 

but the days will pass 

in silence, uninspired by 

our crimes. Yes, 

the very day we realize 

we have brought 

about life's goal, 

if we are lucky 

enough to be recognized 

at all, 

it'll be by the puzzling-

yet-illustrative way 

in which we've managed 

to ignore the admonitions 

of a lifetime 

for something which 

looks, from a distance, 

like a lifetime.

STOP AT NOTHING

How hard 

and long we are 

willing to practice 

perfecting 

the art of our own 

insignificance.

With great, shiny ranks 

of equations and 

numbers 

and quantum 

computers that chew through 

the syllabus, 

we are reckless-

ly determined 

as that crab they call Cancer 

to see things as they 

really are: devoid of all color, 

smell, taste, and texture—

atomistic, 

genotypic, quantized, 

and molecular—in other words, 

as perfect-

ly endurable 

without us. 

INEVITABILITY

We think that life

is a melody, 

but rhythm's 

more the gist of it: 

we sweeten in time 

with the rate of years' increasing;

we soften 

and fill out, 

while dying 

every minute. 

In pursuit of our truth, we lose 

touch with where we come from.

In pursuit of our freedom, 

we are innocent as apples 

destined to fall 

from their tree in autumn;

blushing 

as they ripen 

to their own 

destruction. 

GUESSWORK

Do you see 

how there's always 

a veil over things— 

a protective film 

on the touchscreen;

a haze of steam 

on our feelings;

a windshield 

between the joyriding 

brain and the landscape 

of reality?

Try as we might to believe

in our memory

and cry out 

to our contemporaries 

that we understand their pain,

the truth is 

we don't so much 

"state the case"

as pray; 

the truth is

declaring 

what the truth is 

makes as much sense 

as recounting 

last night's dream 

in the stark light of day.

GIVE AND TAKE

At some point, 

it's alright to call it 

a night—

to tan 

for ten-to-twenty 

in front of the TV, 

to give those ropy 

muscles an 

Epsom salt soak, 

to raise your palms 

and kiss 

each majestic, 

and mountainous peak 

of their blisters. 

It's no joke 

to do the easy thing 

and cue up some music 

you already know, 

light a few candles 

and keep repeating 

as they glow 

that greatness 

is transient, 

and sometimes 

genius is 

ad-hoc—that even 

the illimitable 

Johann Sebastian Bach, 

despite all his leaps 

toward the glory 

of God, still would fall

back on the same 

dozen notes. 

TO SPRING

When you come, 

we will always call you 

mercurial; 

when you leave, 

it seems we 

are the ones 

who have changed. 

Besides, 

if your darkness 

and your light

and your warmth 

were so variable—

if your winds 

were so 

undisciplined,

and your rains

were so terrible—

then why 

aren't the incipient 

flowers more afraid? 

TO GOD

In the beginning, you 

were the word 

and the silence. 

You were 

light but 

also darkness.

You gave us names 

for you. You 

gave us 

stories, too 

many stories: 

how the world began, 

where the dead 

belong, 

what the unheard 

soul should sing.

But somewhere along the line, 

you let us 

do the talking. You stopped 

even telling us 

what to believe in. 

You decamped 

with our memories, 

our petitions,

our offerings. 

Because you do 

not listen, 

we feel we can

ask you anything.

TO THE SPOKESPERSON

Ever wondered: 

what does one 

blank space 

have to do 

with another?

Whether the air 

that hovers 

over the becalmed lake 

is anything like 

the empty sheet of paper 

before which 

you sit hunched, in pursuit 

of the answer?

If so, 

congratulations, 

you might be called

a poet—that is 

to say, a tortured creature 

damned to confect 

the explanation

that every kind 

of absence might be 

custom-

made 

of language. 

SOURCE

What we think of 

as joy 

is only 

peace-in-motion. 

What we take 

to mean peace 

is just love 

that's been frozen. 

But love 

is the tough one,

because it has no 

antecedent; 

it never evolved, 

and it did not begin. 

It exists 

the way light does

as a pretext 

for seeing. Or 

as heat does 

for living. 

Or like gravity—only, 

the analogy to force 

is quite coarse 

and and confusing.

Because sheer love

is so absolute 

that doesn't make us 

do anything. 

BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY

Perhaps it's 

mistaken 

to equate "peace" 

with "rest," since 

the best of our 

persuasions, beliefs, 

and opinions 

all seem 

to shrivel like 

leaves whenever 

some stress causes 

life to cleave, and it's 

much more like 

a reflex 

to frantically 

close that gap—lest we 

find ourselves 

trapped 

in the uninhabitable 

space which 

now spontaneously 

seems to exist

between 

the startling feeling 

of having been 

awakened 

and that helplessness which is

so often confounded 

with the certainty 

of sleep. 

TO MY DYING BREATH

On my last day 

on Earth, you'll wish I wasn't 

such a coward 

who dreamed 

of sequences viewed 

out of order, 

and squandered your predecessors  

begging pieces 

of advice 

regarding things being 

other than they were—and 

how to get there. 

But you'll only have 

a moment, so 

you'll have to be concise: just say

I never learned to see 

the beauty 

in what's necessary—

which would have to be 

the first, if not the only 

prerequisite 

of any 

life worth living 

twice.

UNRESOLVED

When the spent stars 

at dawn, commence 

to their wavering—

long overdue 

in disappearing, but 

not yet gone—

who am I 

to keep my eyes fixed 

on their glimmering, 

wishing on their embers

(every wobbly 

last vapor)

only that they 

could keep their 

lucky arms unfurled? 

I am not the kind 

who would starve 

in a forest 

just to spare 

the wild and brilliant 

plumage of its birds;

so why would I impose 

such a stagnant thing 

as beauty 

on the strange 

and mercurial soul 

of this world? 

UNSEEN POWER

The evening light 

grows dim 

as my conviction 

that it's never too late 

to be taught. And still, 

I walk on, lost 

in thought, past 

slumping shoulders, 

weeping trees;

past slow-moving 

pigeons, just begging 

to be caught. But 

this malaise 

of imperfections, 

these defects 

are distractions; this world

I know

cannot be such a brittle star.

If anything, it's 

a mousetrap—a lazy 

seduction: 

all things appear 

weaker than 

they really are. 

HAVE MERCY

There's a message for us—

written, perhaps, 

in the postures 

of gnarled and

prodigious old trees

who never grew guardian

limbs this sturdy 

to harbor 

the likes of these 

avian refugees; 

whose vigilant branches 

were never quite conscious 

of the hives in their 

midst, or their 

startling fragility;

whose thunderous trunks 

were never intended 

to shelter slender squirrels

in their winter

dens of rest—and yet? 

And yet, despite 

all of this, nevertheless...

ULYSSES PACT

Lucky me—

so thrilled to be a penitent 

servant 

to such a rough, devious 

master 

as poetry; 

forswearing 

understanding, I commit still

to her handcuffs 

for the masochistic privilege 

of coveting 

her keys.

A DEPARTURE

The thought is never far 

from the top 

of my mind 

that I would do anything 

to stop myself 

from decomposing. 

And yet, 

there's something 

in experience  

which shows me 

this is wrong:

it's something about 

the comforting feeling 

of a lozenge on the tongue; 

the way I perceive 

the sweetness 

more clearly 

the more its clean edges 

seem to soften 

and dissolve;

the way I seem 

to love 

even the smallest 

bit of my understanding 

most

the instant 

before it's gone. 

BEYOND ME

There—in that 

green space 

where the freshest light 

goes streaking 

through the morning-

spangled branches 

of the still-trembling trees, 

past shabby fields 

of clover and weeds 

where the lawnmowers 

will not go, just to land 

with a gleam 

on the distant heaps

of pink blushing brick 

where even my 

vaguest interlocutors sleep—

that is the place 

where, one day, I 

may come 

to believe, 

without artifice, 

in life 

after death—that is,

in the life 

of this ardent reckless 

world to come 

long after mine 

is done. 

APOLOGETICS

They say discord 

is the spark 

from which the bonfires 

of pure art start,

by which the smooth 

and cornerless light 

of perception

is permitted 

to scatter, our awareness 

to increase. 

But many are we 

who'd ride shotgun 

for the dark,

who would just as soon 

disown 

our own sentience 

if it meant we'd 

never have to hear 

disharmony;

we'd rather use 

and use 

to the point 

of abuse 

that which we already 

think of 

as "ours" 

than even show 

respect 

to our hatred 

of the new.

MYSELF

Let me say: words won't 

explain our relationship. 

In your presence, absence 

itself turns impossible—

turns over and under 

like the infinity symbol—until 

God himself 

could no longer tell 

who is under who's wing,

or if there's any 

difference between 

remembering and knowing.

But I think I've finally 

come to understand 

that remembering bears 

an inestimable cost:

whatever I think you are—

that's what you're not;

whenever i look, 

i can never find you; 

whatever I grasp, I pass 

through like a ghost.

But the act of my looking 

is the way that you tell me 

that it’s you 

who will teach me 

the value of searching—

you

who can never be 

lost.

NAMES

What are these 

dispassionate 

yet fundamental ciphers;

too old to be 

cherished, and yet 

still considered treasures;

imperatively given 

by dead ends  

to unknown futures;

helplessly passed, in fact,

from one breath 

to the next;

holders of the keys 

to these perilous 

identities; 

so charged full of 

significance that they 

themselves mean nothing;

hollow yet impervious 

as gem-encrusted 

coffins, but

comforting to recognize 

as stillness 

in the morning?

EASY COME EASY GO

We like to assume 

such abiding 

designs, but 

the promises we make 

are just so many 

shiny dimes:

begged from 

the stern, old,

and affluent Actual 

by the curious,

bold, but impetuous 

Possible—and then 

flung with delectation 

to the depths 

of a well 

in great hopes 

that the latent return 

on investment 

will redeem the grim

fate of poor 

President Roosevelt.

OLD STANDBY

Despite our patter

of protestations 

that we're 

all obsessed 

with novelty, 

it's pattern 

that we really seek 

and feel the most 

at home in. 

Rhythm still 

gets our motor going,

while rhyme 

feels like a cup of sugar 

our best words kindly 

lend to others. 

Is it right 

that we derive 

so much succor 

from design? 

If there were 

a difference

between right

and common,

would it matter?

SÉANCE

Would it be 

more odd 

or less 

if the dead 

did not 

leave us? 

Anyone's 

guess. But

my sense is:

a ghost 

at my disposal 

who always 

stayed the same; 

who always 

remained 

in the place 

I expected;

who never

changed clothes,

or the expression

on their face 

since the day

I watched them 

pass 

would be 

the last person 

on Earth 

I would ask 

for advice.

TENET

O, to just have faith 

enough to wake 

and stretch 

and dress and 

emerge—

not with great 

exhilaration, but at least 

with nothing specific

to resist. 

How much of our 

art—how many poems 

have wished this? 

How many of their lines,

burning in their 

earnestness, 

have yearned, 

like us, for this great 

and useless beauty—

for nothing like 

purpose, skill, or 

magnificence—

to be organized and cataloged 

by nothing but 

the date today,

and justified merely 

by declaring 

they exist?

LAST WORD

We like to think that 

matters are settled; 

we think we have the facts. 

But what we think of as truth

may only be 

the middle—or even 

the beginning—

and brief as 

dew on morning grass.

Can you picture the universe 

before it was set 

into motion? 

How about the Earth 

devoid of all creatures; 

before it even had its oceans? 

It's far simpler to hope 

in a dream 

to glimpse 

the ancient races 

and their poets: the joys 

and burdens they would carry;

the paths that they would trod. 

Next time you seek

a final answer, think first 

of all the wildly different 

names they must have had 

for god.

IN DEFENSE OF QUIET DESPERATION

Once in a while, I 

grant you: revolution's 

a necessity. 

But most 

of the time, my 

tremendous sensitivity 

would like 

to argue: it's 

too messy. I'm turned off 

by the turmoil 

and the violence 

which is crucial 

to make a clean 

break with The Current

or The Senseless;

I don't want to long 

for the change 

I need to make 

with such passionate 

defiance that I'm 

swept up in some coup;

I'd much prefer to 

fall in love with 

what little I can do.

TO APRIL

The great rabbles

of clouds in your 

quicksilver sky—

confounding,

combining, 

compounding

one another—

are somehow 

less foreboding 

than the ominous way 

they loiter there

all day, holding on

to their rain.

CLIFFHANGER

If this were a movie, 

we'd think 

we've been shortchanged. 

And no wonder: 

the storyline's

meandering; the moral

won't cohere. But 

though we're alone in this 

cavernous theater,

and no one 

would be the wiser, 

the reason 

we haven't yet 

gotten up and left 

is simply because 

we can't—at least, 

not the we 

that we think of 

as us. 

See, somewhere between 

the start of the joint

and this particular 

maddening scene,

we've failed to notice 

the plot's 

beside the point.

As long as we're here 

to watch it progress, 

this life, 

by necessity, must 

be bereft 

not only of a happy 

or ambiguous ending—

but a proper 

ending all together. 

AFFIRMATION

Your duress, though 

intangible, is a matter 

of fact. Yes, it's less 

material than, say, 

an egg which is 

made of Fabergé, 

and yet: there it 

sits, every bit

as intact 

and impeccably 

jeweled in the pearls 

and enamel 

which you forged 

with great care and 

fastidiousness 

in the just-as-

immaterial furnace 

of your stress—yes,

every bit 

as lavish and loving-

ly constructed—

perhaps not quite 

as elegant, but

every bit as frangible.

SEDIMENTAL FEELING

What were the magic 

words that formed 

the world? 

For an instant

most mornings, I suspect 

that I just knew;

but soon, there's a tide 

in the ocean 

of my mind 

dragging out to sea 

all the things I think

are true—and then 

washing mixed-up bits 

and pieces of them 

right back in again—

until most 

of the detritus I can 

see along this beach 

is made up of stuff 

so self-

similar and small

that it's impossible 

for me to count 

each individual particle. 

The best I can do 

is try to put 

the view to use

and give 

one collective name 

to them all.

HOLDINGS

It's impossible

to know 

at the very beginning 

what you'll eventually 

discard 

or outgrow 

and what is worth 

clutching to your soul

just in case. 

It's like how 

you still think 

abnormally hard 

about whether 

to toss 

that pickle jar

which you haven't 

thought to open 

in over three months, 

or keep it there

for three 

or four more 

just because 

you have 

the fridge space.

EKPHRASIS FOR THE PIN-UP GIRL

Even solid gold 

comes off messy 

when it glows 

from its post as 

the trove of her hair—tangled 

in the bearing 

of all that she must know,

too highly regarded 

to be tamed by a comb— 

as she gazes 

out from underneath 

all that wealth without a care,

eyes less daydreaming 

than floating, just above, 

or possibly below 

some effortless truth

about the nature 

of allure 

which you or I, being 

cheap and human, would have 

foolishly discarded.

SHADOWS

For almost as long 

as there has been light, 

something has been there 

to get in the way of it—

casting its absence

as a twin left behind,

a piece of the dark 

in the shape 

of its essence,

recognizable 

in an instant, and yet built 

out of nothing 

and showing us—we 

who are filled

with such questions, 

we who blockade light 

ourselves with these 

bodies—even less 

than those 

selves, even less 

than the night. 

NO ASYLUM

One would think 

that, with the rain clouds 

now parting

and the light drizzling down 

like honey 

from the sun 

on the wet city streets 

which are glistening 

like tongues, you too 

would get

sweetened, would be cleansed 

of what was wrong. 

But in truth, there's no 

asylum in a world that bests

its flaws;

it's a dirtying feeling 

when you sense you 

don't belong. 

ALL THAT JAZZ

Is it possible 

for life to be both 

enjoyed and endured?— 

for the little you have left 

to be the most 

for which you hope? 

The preachers

say no—that our purpose 

shall be known—

while the politicians

split the vote by angling 

for an either/or; 

but the rest of us don't 

bother sending soldiers 

to that war, since 

we already know 

the answer is: sure, that's 

what music is for. 

SYNTHESIS

We're bred 

to think ourselves slaves

to affection—

to assume what we seek 

above all is closeness. 

But in truth, what we 

crave is a strange 

combination 

of intimacy 

and remoteness. 

Perhaps that's why 

in centuries past, 

brave men 

would helm the sterns 

of great boats, 

and, spurning common sense, 

sail off the edge 

into seas unknown 

only to yearn 

for the first sight of land

and dream under bright stars 

of their dull

lives back home.

CONTINGENCY

Like a musty old chess set 

whose knights were 

long lost 

and have since been 

replaced by two 

snatches of cloth, 

or the rusty stock pot 

with a frying pan 

for its cover 

that's too trusty 

to replace, even 

at trivial cost—so too 

can a heart 

still be 

jury-rigged to work 

even with a few 

of its parts 

snatched out, 

mislaid by 

the user, or 

accidentally tossed. 

GAPING

One would think 

that understanding 

would look different 

than bewilderment—at least 

from the outside, 

but the truth is

but it doesn't. 

The truth is, it looks 

exactly like you: 

stopping short, 

gobsmacked 

in front of a shop window 

at the sight of 

not the twin—not even 

the shadow—

but the stranger 

who's depicted there, 

thick, cold, and 

impenetrable. 

It looks like you losing 

and gaining 

sight of the facts

that a gap 

can take up space

and mass—

that some reticence is 

plainly visible—

that certain lacks 

feel solid, vast, 

and, though slight, still

quite unbridgeable.

NO NEW THING UNDER THE SUN

The "full implications"

of some things 

stubbornly persist, 

while others 

(however devout-

ly we wish 

would remain 

considerable) gradually 

diminish. But

this is just the way 

it works with 

significance: 

there is no trick

on Earth you could pull

to arrange it.

As the known universe 

expands, and our quarks

grow stranger, 

the physicists 

only grow more 

and more certain—

the lay public, less 

enthusiastic—instead 

of the opposite. 

MEMENTO

To the old scythe-

nosed crow, half-cackling, half-

rasping

who has lapsed 

in the flight which is his grim 

and ceaseless office  

to perch upon that 

street lamp in my vantage 

in broad daylight:

I am glad

to be reminded of 

the certitude of death 

in a manner which I can't 

laugh off—and yet, which I can 

manage.

THE PROCESS

In the all-hell-

busted wreck 

of late March, spring 

is no pleasing, 

no delicate thing—

in fact,

she looks more 

like a fiend, 

an addict, a mess. 

If figures: 

the enfant terrible 

of the seasons 

has once again 

confronted us with 

"difficult art."

All who dare look

upon the cold

fecond dross 

of her latest, most 

reasonless canvas

must wonder: am I looking 

at the end of something? 

Or is this just

the start?

THE BREATH

There's a part of me 

whose only function 

is to keep two 

other parts from

touching. 

It's clean, transparent 

and made 

out of something 

resembling light—only 

lighter, 

more gossamer, 

less well 

defined—

which is 

just what's required 

when you 

need to clear 

the air between 

the longings

of your heart 

and the worries 

on your mind. 

EX NIHILO

If the narrator 

of the this faded 

and arcane little book 

would deign 

to speak out, I'm quite 

sure they'd observe 

that every time 

you sniffed, I sneezed; 

that just after 

you itched, 

I scratched; and that 

as soon as you got the urge, 

I danced. 

Not in space, of course—

not with my limbs sculpting 

glutenous time 

into readymade 

vessels for

operative gestures—but

all through the pages 

of interior space 

which contain the long story 

of how we came to be 

divorced. 

MISDIRECTION

Ever notice? 

The things we 

can't grasp

are the ones 

that we covet. 

Absences, 

dearths, sins 

of omission: these

fascinate more 

than plain 

interest might 

explain. Perhaps it's 

this obsession

with lack 

of satisfaction

which accounts 

for the way 

our hearts behave: 

always chasing 

after flashes 

of lust with 

nothing 

significant underneath, 

rather than 

the blander guts 

of deep-

ly intelligent matches. 

GRANDSTANDING

Oh if it only it were 

so simple 

for the rest of us 

to get going 

like the tough 

when the going 

gets rough, 

instead of 

loading-up the tragic 

events with extraneous 

words and acts 

to protract 

their significance. 

I, for one, wonder—

who on Earth 

are these supermen 

who press 

on in the face 

of impending 

disaster 

in lieu of showing it off 

to their wearied 

fellow travelers

and/or feting it 

with their eloquence? 

ON TAXONOMIC HIERARCHY

It's said 

a shrimp's heart 

is in its head.

Sounds impressive—

but easy 

to pull off when

you're an arthropod, 

and all of your armor 

is a part 

of the facade. 

Still,

I admit, there's 

a pit 

beneath my soft skin

and deep inside 

my rib cage, which,

if not quite 

obsessed, is

at the very least 

curious 

what it would be like

to stop

overthinking this

and, just for 

a bit, over-

feel it instead.

IN THE ZONE

Once you're alone 

for too long, it's even worse

to be disturbed. 

There you were: 

fathoms deep 

in your mind palace, 

set before 

a perceptual 

feast just for one

and raising 

a chalice to the lack

of observation

when along comes 

some beggar, knocking 

desperate at your door,

as if it were

conceivable—let alone 

simple—to share 

one's isolation. As if 

the desolate depths 

of pure loneliness 

could be plumbed 

and abated by a little 

conversation.

TO THE VERNAL EQUINOX

Even though we 

know that we know 

how soon, how 

benignly, how inexorably 

you'll arrive, 

still we turn 

our faces to the sky 

to gawk in surprise 

at your arrival,

as though it were 

the very first time—as though 

we did not know 

that we know 

how long we have 

languished here, stymied 

by the poem

and pining for days 

when the world 

would receive us 

into more than 

just a waiting room; 

when nothing 

would seem necessary 

except (perhaps) 

contingency; 

when the language 

of flowers 

would not just inform,

but truly overwhelm 

the flowers 

of language. 

OUT OF THE QUESTION

Have you not realized 

by now how your 

most fervent wish 

has always been 

to ditch this existence,

to become somehow 

different, to turn 

into someone else? 

Thousands upon thousands 

of spins around this Earth—

a conduit of translation, 

a passionate observer 

of births and 

of deaths—and yet, 

oblivious to these motions, 

your sights have been set 

not on the longing 

for contentment, 

or for happiness, but 

instead, on the hunger 

to be other than you are—as if 

the one with whom 

you've sat and borne

witness to these moments 

was not but an awkward 

and a sheer and total stranger, 

with whom you still find

yourself thrilled 

(as well as frightened)

to sit and share the dark. 

PRAYER

By now, I've said 

[your name]

out loud 

so many times in a row, 

that it's done meaning 

everything 

which I seemed 

to seek salvation from,

gone long past 

the sound of the cooed 

gibberish whose 

infantile pleasures I 

barely recall—

and officially now 

has arrived 

as a stand-in 

for any 

thought I could think

at all. 

FULL ANALYSIS W/ COMMENTARY

Your love: 

it's so much 

like a dream

that I'm never sure 

how long 

it lasted, 

or what it was 

supposed 

to mean.

SHITSHOW

Finding I'm faced 

west at sunset 

and alone, I understand 

how the only 

things I've ever owned 

are the failures, mistakes, and 

misconceptions 

which have plagued me—

how they all staggered 

after me, like the undead 

in a horror film, 

with hands stretched 

when I tried to ditch them;

each so sincere 

in its resolute faith 

that its clever machination

could spring me 

from the present jam;

and all of them 

correct (despite their 

grave miscalculations) that, 

despite my refusal 

to let them 

touch my skin, 

it has always been 

my running from them 

which has brought me 

where I am.

SELF

Even when I refuse to, 

it feels like I am still 

searching for you—

you, whom I'm sure 

I remember, 

though the last time 

we spoke, there was silence 

between us, 

and the last time we were together 

in the same room was 

long ago—

you, who never once tried to 

explain to me 

your identity, as if 

the inadmissibility 

of language 

was all you could need 

for evidence. 

You—

whom I know beyond

the darkest  shadow 

of reason 

that I must love,

even though

your existence 

I will never be able 

to prove. 

COPACETIC

At the end of the hall 

which is 

all that exists between us, 

there used to be 

an unlocked door 

through which we 

could pass 

on an errand or two 

to the stacks—

those dank archives of 

pitiful feeling 

we'd been hording  

on the off-chance 

an adventurer 

would come looking 

and discover there 

the treasure that would 

make them world-famous. 

And through that hall 

and the labyrinths 

which surround it 

have long since fallen 

into disrepair, 

I can tell from this distance 

that the door 

is still there—because 

every time you ask me 

where I've been or 

how it's going, 

I can faintly hear 

the quick pop 

of a lock—and the sound 

of it stubbornly  

creaking open.

I BLAME THE INTERNET

There are drawbacks 

to knowing what everything 

is for.

Around every corner, 

there used to be 

dangers, so 

we had to be 

cautious—but also 

much braver. 

Life itself 

was sacramental, 

so everyone on Earth 

was religious 

by nature.

But now we know 

that divinity 

was only eternity's 

loud and tacky 

costume—and worse: 

that the universe 

is really just 

a courtroom,

wherein 

the most impassioned 

argument

writes the headline 

and the nomenclature.