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.