CHORES

This is not 

a request. And it's 

not a proposition. 

A duty 

is not 

transferable, 

or open 

to negotiation—only you 

can do 

what has got to 

get done. You must 

grab a hold 

of this man

whom you've become,

this person 

whose life you've 

tramped upon,

whose corners 

you've frayed and seams 

you've rent—

take it 

and string it up fast 

like a rug 

to that razor-

thin line in the sky 

of tough love—take it 

and beat it 

clean again. 

SECOND WIND

The instant 

our ship finally 

grinds to rest 

on the rocky beach-

head of true

hopelessness, 

we're more than a little 

nonplussed 

to discover it's 

far less depleting 

than we'd been led 

to suspect.

Turns out, 

even despair 

feels like 

arriving somewhere;

and, tired 

and filthy 

and hungry 

though we are,

we still eagerly 

throw the ship

in park and 

go explore. 

180

Everyone wants 

their own 

sudden epiphany,

but often, 

what's required first 

is something more like 

a revelation 

in reverse. 

That is: not 

in a flash, 

but something more

like a dirge, 

some judgement 

or conviction 

about which we 

used to be so sure 

gradually loses all its 

upward momentum 

and lazily, 

inexorably falls 

back to Earth;

like a very nearly- 

grand slam crack

that drops 

an inch before 

the centerfield wall, 

some suspicion 

or assumption 

that we used to call 

a fact

gets softened 

and lightened into 

just another fiction  

before it can 

smother us all.

CRUX OF THE MATTER

It's astounding for an eye 

at the boundary 

to behold

such majestic, 

relentless rotational 

symmetry. Unimaginable,

yet ravishing 

how much faith 

gets bestowed 

from one's perch 

at the edge on one point 

in the middle. 

It's more than a little 

unnerving, in fact, 

how over-

enthusiastically 

all we know is turning

around the black 

hole of a premise that 

there's one thing 

that won't. 

DEAR COMPULSIONS

What would my life be like 

without you? 

(It's actually

hard to imagine 

without being 

forced to.)

I wonder: 

are you always 

so sure of yourself? Or

is it just that, when compared 

with my thoughts, yours

know better? (At least,

so you somehow manage 

to assert 

without a word.)

And how do you 

sleep at night, o 

monkey on my back? (I mean,

aren't you afraid 

I might, some day, 

roll over?) More importantly, 

how do I sleep either 

without those

ceaseless reminders

for six or seven dark hours

who I am—why 

I matter?

SOMETHING

There is always something 

indescribable 

in the need you 

feel to write things down—

something unsayable 

in the sounds

your mouth must 

use to say so.

It's something about a raven 

(or a crow, 

more likely)

always pecking 

the peripheral, always 

needling away 

at the corners 

of your temples; 

something about 

your penchant 

for holding your breath 

well past 

the point of discomfort, 

to distress

just to sharpen 

to the point of exhilaration

the pleasure of setting it 

free once again; 

something 

about finding divine-

ly comic inspiration 

traced out by wandering 

motes of dust 

in the window-

stretched light of a 

tapioca sun—the same sun 

that has lulled you 

into happy, ochre 

thoughts of love—

the same sun 

that must burn until 

it swells 

up and 

kills everyone.

TO FUTILITY

There is still so much 

left to affect

in this life, 

and (I know) 

not enough left 

of time, sweat, and blood.

But still, I must bask 

in the gravity 

of walking; 

still I must claim 

every breath

as a trust,

as a flame 

on a votive candle, 

lit in thanksgiving,

as a theme song 

for the wildness

and the honor of everything—

for the privilege 

of knowing that all of this 

began with light, 

and that all, 

as it must, will end 

in dust.

My clavicles 

and the gray of my 

temples may be showing,

aged 

by their prematurely-

accumulated grace;

my bones may be softer,

my pace may be 

slowing—but still 

I draw 

the next breath. 

Still I will keep going.

OVER MY DEAD BODY

A change of heart 

is the hardest thing 

to hold out for. 

A mind may 

just be so inclined 

by the new light 

of facts or data 

charts, but alas, 

there are 

no counterparts 

in atonement, 

forgiveness, and

reconciliation.

no great 

conflagration of patience 

and time;

no new information 

or updated priors,

will ever counteract 

the resolve

of an organ 

that would sooner 

get attacked

than get made 

into a liar.

FIRST PERSON SINGULAR

In the beginning—

before the word—

there must 

first have been 

the relation 

between stillness 

and vibration, 

between plain air 

and the very first 

breath's aspiration. 

Then, 

out of silence 

and isolation 

came the merely judicious 

deployment

of solitude; 

past the unbounded, 

uncrossable gulf 

between humans

came, not even

the God's 

truth, but just 

the First 

Person Singular—

not wasting a moment 

in exploring 

its new power,

not singing, 

not laughing, 

but trying to 

solicit you. 

SOLO

Dear face 

in the mirror, what's 

it like

to weigh

nothing? 

What's it like 

to have no name? 

What's it like 

mouthing questions 

which you didn't first 

conceive? 

What's it like to be 

a slave—

always locked 

into a stare, always 

getting 

it all backwards, 

always placed

in a slight 

square of space 

which is nowhere? 

Is it worth it 

to show up here 

first thing 

every morning? And

anyway, how 

far away 

is it, I wonder, 

from here— 

where I doubt-

lessly stand—to right 

there?

ON THE SOUL AND ITS ORIGIN

The question 

I ponder, but 

could never dare

confront

is never: excuse 

me, is there

anybody in there? 

It's more like: 

how many? 

And where 

did everybody 

come from? 

And: are you all 

politely

taking turns

denying my 

inquiry for all 

its absurdity? Or 

(and here, please, god 

bless the auspicious-

ness of my ignorance)

lambasting me 

with silence 

in simultaneous 

reply?

TO THE BLUE SKY—

how is it 

you remain 

so light 

and wide and 

gaping 

all the time? 

Always exposed; 

always 

so susceptible 

to the slightest 

perturbations 

and super-

saturation with 

Earthly imposters?

Unlike you, I'd

make a poor 

open sore: 

I'm too often 

oppressed 

by the absence 

of low pressure;

I too

quickly grow 

uncomfortable 

with my own lack 

of obscurity. 

SUNNY SIDE

          Keep on the sunny side, 

          always on the sunny side

          keep on the sunny side of life.
          It will help us every day, 

          it will brighten up the way
          if we keep on the sunny side of life.

          —Carter Family

Doesn't matter

how spare 

or how dense 

the situation gets;

in either case, 

we're told 

to bear 

the stress

and make the 

most of it. 

Our agonies

increase

from exquisite 

to intense—

our green pastures  

now consist 

of just a fraction 

of an inch—

and still 

we feel the pull 

to flex a smile 

and claim we're 

cool with it—

as though 

our acquiescence 

fed the wolf 

or paid the rent—

as though 

we earned 

our blessings 

just by saying we've 

been blessed. 

LEAP

It's true that 

some of the most 

beautiful hymns 

never find their way home; 

yes, the promised land

 exists, but it is

full of empty cans 

and ghosts.

And don't even ask 

how many good deeds 

never get off the ground, 

because there are loads

of them rotting 

in the fields as we speak,

or else packed 

in an attic, gathering dust. 

But still, you must 

try to do the 

next right thing, 

even when you fear 

the failure of your body 

to endure the cost;

even when you're 

sure it's useless;

even when you 

don't know 

what to say, it 

doesn't matter—for 

not every 

desperate blunder 

spurs us on to failure;

not every prayer 

that flounders 

is lost.

REVIVAL

As if a 

monolith 

from above,

true beauty 

needs nothing—

perfect 

in itself, 

there's no favor

you could grant it. 

Love, 

on the other hand, 

is a beggar 

and a miscreant; 

it shouts 

in the streets, 

yet it preaches 

no doctrine;

it narrows 

your options, so 

you have to 

keep feeding it. 

But you cannot 

convert to it 

in a beatific 

instant—it has 

to be chosen 

new, moment 

after moment. 

SOCIAL EXCHANGE

How the hell 

am I supposed 

to tell which 

of my parts I 

should clutch

close to me, and 

which I should 

give with a wide 

open heart?  

Nothing in here 

has instructions 

or earmarks—plus, 

it's too hard 

to tell the difference 

between grasping

a thing and 

giving it up 

when every fretted 

gesture goes down 

in the dark. 

TO YE OF LITTLE FAITH:

Take heart. Little faith 

is not really such a 

bad thing;

yes, it's effort-

lessly shaken—

but then

again, it's just as 

casually regained. 

Besides, regardless 

of what 

Frost says, 

it's a waste 

and indecorous 

to harbor grand convictions 

about sustaining 

strained relationships 

or asymmetrically 

favoring 

the cost 

which you've already 

sunk into your chosen way—

instead of the road 

not taken.

SHELL GAME

Funny how
the more we think

we've got it
figured out,

the less we expect
the next

day—hour—
minute

to grift
our rube souls

with a wink
and a smile.

See now: how even 

the light—

which we're pretty sure
is permanent—

is not
without guile—

pretending

as it does

to always stand
still.

STAY HUMBLE

It's tough 

being tender—

no joke

to be unripe.

So why not 

throw greenness 

and ignorance 

some rope? 

It's automatic

to grow graceful, 

intelligent, 

mature—but

it's hard work 

to know that 

before you 

even learn.

DID YOU HEAR THAT?

If everything we did 

was music, then 

even 

our silence 

would contain 

tacit fragments 

of protest 

and exuberance—

even our gutless 

assent and resignation 

would thrum 

with the remnants 

of our lust 

for disobedience—

even our 

acceptance 

would squeal VETO!

like a trumpet.

But hey, wait 

a minute: listen 

back again—

doesn't it?