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. 

SCHOOLED

So, what then

is the difference 

between 

resentful 

and jealous? 

There the sparrows, 

all congregated 

naked in the still-

dead bushes, 

and the sound of their chirping has

unfastened me a little:

how recklessly 

happy—how delirious 

they sound,

and how foreign 

to my marrow 

it is to celebrate 

deficiency

just 

by subsisting here, 

at the tail-end of winter,

so cold, and so 

conscious, and so violent-

ly hungry. 

SPELLBOUND

The softest pedal 

on the piano 

must be down, 

smearing those unhurried 

arpeggios 

into clouds—

strange-

ly shaped formations, 

barely there, 

but half-occluded 

by devotion's 

hungry shadow 

outlasting 

my impatience 

and every expectation 

to have 

moments ago 

outgrown this fascination 

and snapped 

back off 

the radio. 

NOT MUCH OF A CLIFFHANGER

Have you noticed—

when it comes to being 

out of our depth, 

the harder-

up we get, the less 

help we'll accept? 

It's like: for over half 

of the film, we've been 

hanging from the cliff, 

fingers growing 

gradually wetter 

with sweat; 

but instead 

of either keeping 

our strength conserved  

 

or clamoring 

loud as we can 

for a savior,

we'd rather flail 

our legs until 

our grip has collapsed, 

then curse the long- 

gone villain to our 

very last breath.  

A REASONABLE FACSIMILE

Are there thoughts 

we can't think? 

Are there 

elevated spaces 

where the likes of us 

are not invited? 

Or dispositions 

so base—winged, fork-

tongued emotions 

with scales 

for skin and garish 

horns on their faces—

that to sanction their 

attainment would 

be tantamount 

to damnation? 

Such a blanket blockade 

is itself hard 

to imagine.

(Hard, yes—but not 

impossible. 

We are permitted, 

it would seem, 

to conjure—if not 

dragons—then at least 

their descriptions 

and pictures.)