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 our lives—scanty, 

yet unflappably 

demanding: it survives.

MARKET VOLATILITY

The shapely runes 

which I gather 

and order 

every morning into 

glorious new syntaxes,

by evening, 

speak back—drained 

of their passion—

in languages I no 

longer understand. 

SUPERPOWER

Not infrequently, there are evenings

when every traffic 

light is green 

on the bleary return-drive

from that place which I failed 

to arrive at on-time—

which is a way I have

of knowing 

that I

must be a whole universe

(that always,

impossibly,

seems to be trapped

inside some 

other universe).

SUMMER BREAK

The sound

of children flooding 

the post-rain park—

squealing 

at earthworms, finally 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 SCENARIO

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, even though 

we're doomed, we go 

right on talking—

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 language's car—

that weapon on wheels—

the loud suit 

of armor—

and imperiously putting 

the pedal to the floor. 

But what I didn't

mention 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 

in no sense 

compulsory, even though 

it's elemental;

the way wind 

wends through birch trees 

to buffet me 

in short sleeves 

at this particular spot 

on the planet

on this particular instant, 

but still can't 

be said to have 

had a beginning—

perhaps 

something like these things 

is what we mean 

by essential:

it's like hunger—

which never had 

to be invented, and yet

comes to each of us 

unbidden,

grabs hold 

of the void in us firmly 

by the handle, 

 

and fills it 

to the brim.

WHEEL OF FORTUNE

After everyone who smiles 

when they say your name 

has died—

after every false 

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 might 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 futility, over time, 

becomes 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 residual 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 all pay 

in cash, and we form 

a neat queue 

to view for ourselves 

how nothing much

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 

a 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

and so tight 

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.