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.