MATTERS OF INDIFFERENCE

To be conscious 

is to notice 

that you're going 

through the motions.

But to glimpse

from whom those motions 

originated 

in the first place—

that is a whole different 

kind of recognition. 

*

No matter what, light 

will always take 

the shortest 

path to its 

destination. 

Setting aside 

the whole quagmire 

of design, 

what does this say 

about living 

in the moment?

*

By a radiant 

glow, I see you 

clothed in the music 

which, both raised 

as Christians, we used 

to call dissonance—

naked, that is, 

and with 

parodies of permanence 

racing down the infinite 

lengths of your skin;

"Enjoy the journey," 

for instance, 

tattooed sarcastically 

backwards across your 

unlimited face.

WHITE FLAG

It would figure—

that the cost

of our endurance 

is our nimbleness 

and vigor—

and the price 

of eternal 

vigilance is 

faintness 

and fatigue. 

When we "dare 

to dream big," 

it's a long walk

from end to end, 

so heaven forgive us 

if we deign to sit

and rest a minute

and watch 

(a little jealous) 

the way rain puddles 

in light wind

tend to shiver 

off their edges 

bit by bit, 

til they cease 

to exist. 

THINK TWICE, IT'S ALRIGHT

I used to get annoyed 

with a faulty 

bulb that flickers; 

its stammers 

were advertisements 

for deficiency and lack.

But I've gradually grown 

used to all its 

wavering and dithers—

such maneuvers 

remind me that it's 

perfectly alright 

to stutter 

and to hesitate, to cut 

my lags some slack—

that it might be 

as natural 

as visible light 

that I'd like

to hedge 

my bets a bit,

or hold 

the slightest 

something back.

USELESS CONFESSIONS

Once I dreamt 

I played a bit part—

just a face 

on the street—

in someone 

else's dream. 

No lines to read 

or spotlight 

to hog, no interior 

monologue. 

to be "one of them" 

felt like nothing 

at all—which,

in and of itself,

was a massive

relief. 

*

Those people who, 

in the wake 

of a tragedy 

say to their 

loved ones

there are no words—

I hereby admit 

I am moved 

by that statement 

to astonishing flights 

of jealousy.   

* 

If everything we do 

is music, 

then 

sometimes I don't 

care one bit 

which of us is left 

still twisting 

and which of us 

now is the 

turbulent wind. 

NO BIG LOSS

Storefront 

by condo, 

season after season, 

the city 

simply scrapes the bottom,

remakes—and then 

renames itself. 

I wish I were thus:

industrious—no, 

ruthless—

no pity 

in me for 

intensely loved 

flavors of the month I 

used to be.

EVENTUALLY

The way even the most 

prodigious waves 

exhaust themselves 

on beachheads 

crowned 

with obdurate limestone—

as if, in the face 

of this bellicose present, 

the past 

would somehow 

capitulate—

it is too hard, 

after all the repetition 

mockingly called 

a journey, 

to trace back 

and locate the source 

of the ache. 

Chancing on reflections

half-erased in 

shallow tide pools, 

it is too hard 

for anyone 

not to feel displaced. 

TO BE CONTINUED...

One thought 

while driving 

down I-55 

pertains 

to the poetry 

of single lines: 

airliner 

contrails, old 

telephone wires—surely 

unbrokenness 

must be 

no accident; 

certainly 

somewhere, 

my veins 

must have rhymes.

SCIENCE V. RELIGION

The trick 

they will use 

to pique your interest is 

to frighten you: 

the world 

is a crapshoot 

because we don't know 

what will happen. 

Or else, it's 

a trash heap 

because we do know 

to a tee.

By way 

of response, 

you may pray 

or look askance. 

You may notice

how confusion 

is experienced 

out-of-body.

But it's best to take 

your chances, since, 

the thing is: 

so is certainty. 

CASE STUDY

You say—by itself,

no constituent 

means anything; 

one line alone 

can't surprise you 

or rhyme.

But show some respect 

for the obduracy 

of atoms;

have some humility 

for the speciousness 

of time—

for each breath you take 

is a cross section 

of significance;

each water droplet 

is an instance 

of sky.

I AIN'T AFRAID OF NO GHOSTS

          "I’m Nobody! Who are you?"

               -Emily Dickinson 

Unconscionable, yes, but 

where's the tragedy 

in death? 

By what trick of light 

may the forever 

of after 

be glimpsed, however

slightly, in the mirror 

of before?

If we're no one 

while we're here, 

by what rights do we fear 

this kind of non-swimming 

through the ocean 

of no more, or 

the flowers of the intangible 

which bloom at night 

by the banks of the unconscious? 

Valuelessness 

must have 

no valence, at best:

nothing more 

to nobody.

Ashes. Dust. Rest.

EXERCISE

Don't simply 

look, 

writer; look again

harder. Unsettle

and ply each

delimited moment;

attend 

every petal—you 

will live 

longer.

THE BIG PICTURE

It's true: 

the life within you 

may go on forever. 

You, 

however, 

will not be invited. 

*

Without even 

putting forth a modicum 

of effort, 

the human eye 

can see across 

vast distances. 

Is that what passes 

for insight 

at present? 

You call that clever? 

You call passivity

enlightened?

*

Congratulations: heaven 

exists.

It is a state 

of consummate equivalence.

In it, 

there's no difference 

between remembering 

and being remembered,

between loss 

of all motor function 

and making 

a fist.

GAINSAID

What piques our interest 

if not 

contradictions—

the imagination going 

off-roading adjacent 

to abysses? 

But the landing only sticks 

if we learn 

to split the difference 

between lavish 

and sufficient—

between generous 

and precise. 

In that case, 

The one-way 

road separating 

spacious 

from its opposite 

may then be the site 

of a Disneyland 

parade—that is: 

both 

purgatorial and pure 

entertainment. 

GENERAL RELATIVITY

Let mass 

be defined as 

that feeling 

you get 

when you push

against the boundaries, 

when you tug 

at the contours 

of your own 

nothingness.

*

Energy is simply 

the repetitive 

performance 

of the one trick 

you know how to pull

off so well

that nobody 

realizes 

you don't believe it 

at all.

*

To square the speed 

of light, you'd need

a galaxy 

of grackles—

each darting

while exchanging mock-

insults with the others—

so quick,

agitated, and turbulently 

smothered

that there's no chance 

of knowing 

how the whole thing

got started.

ELEMENTS OF DESIGN

The way 

the rebellious 

wind runs wild 

inside its enclosure 

of stainless 

steel chimes 

is, to the passerby, 

its own kind 

of speech act, 

stopping

at nothing—dying 

to remind 

that even 

that levity we

misconstrue as freedom,

even pure emptiness 

has corners 

in the mind.

ANY BODY

When was the last time 

you refused 

your own reflection? 

when was the last time 

you self-identified 

as pretty? 

* 

You want to believe 

ideologies 

are parodies—

that the goal is:

make the most

of each constraint 

imposed. 

But, like all 

living subjects

bound and bordered 

by grim logic,

you cannot stop 

compulsive attraction 

of neurons 

to belief.

And in time, 

you find yourself 

relieved 

to be identified

 

as the object 

of ongoing 

hostage negotiations—

between the law 

of falling bodies 

and the trifling weight 

of light. 

DITTO

We say: "I get

the feeling," 

as if that feeling

pre-existed.

But even our most intimate,

and antique experiences,

when recollected, 

are nothing 

if not

counterfeit heirlooms—

ersatz treatises, 

newly minted. So, 

either, to god's eye,

there's no such thing 

as proper order, 

or else—come to think of it, 

probably 

it did.

AUTUMN RHYTHM

Ethereal mounds

of aromatic asters,

hardly fairly compensated 

for all that they could

(but do not) say—

for spinning 

sunlight into sugar 

all dwindling day

without so much as even 

honoring the urge 

to glance up at god's 

time clock

or whistle while they work 

to pass the hours 

faster.

SIMPATICO

I'm in love 

with the way

we both get sick 

and tired 

of all the arguments

in such perfect 

synchrony 

and (who would 

believe it?)

to the

very same 

degree. 

EMPIRE OF THE POSSIBLE

In the kingdom 

where I live, excess 

is kitsch,

and sentimental expressions 

are the stuff 

of class revolt. 

On the razor-thin 

line between "why not" 

and "please don't," 

perfectly balanced, 

is built the palace 

in which I sit—

declining to throw in 

with either side 

of the divide, yet 

unassailable as king 

of my own private 

nothing.