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.

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.