URBAN HYMN

Sing until 

you lose me, 

metropolitan muse

in distant clamor 

of car horns, leaf 

blowers, jackhammers 

of a city without borders 

in a dream 

without language—

no audience 

to agonize, no narrator 

to refuse 

the onrush of nameless 

and unrecognized 

protagonists; 

distract such that I 

can't tell particular 

from huge

and lose track 

of who's who in the flux 

of this deluge.

WILL THIS BE ON THE TEST?

Electrons, 

which may or may not 

be said to exist 

(depending on the context), 

nonetheless will jumpskip 

from orbit to orbit 

spooking the nucleus 

and shooting off energy 

which we feel 

in the audience 

as we witness 

the experiment 

as—

dread, 

purpose,

or suspense?

* 

Given that 

wherever there is growth 

there is always a scar 

at the center, 

is the inverse 

also correct? 

Can you hijack a metaphor 

and run it in reverse? 

What color bird 

or 

what species 

of flower 

could stand 

for the opposite 

of power? 

*

With quick lines, I gesture 

toward 

narrative thrust 

with vigor and 

plausible 

nonchalance—even though, 

like you, I am 

just passing through.

Incongruously authentic, 

retroactively secure, 

I am the flesh 

made word; 

designer 

of the game. 

Pleased to meet you.

Guess my name.

FALL POEM

There are afternoons 

when late October 

feels like it might stay forever;

when sunlight itself 

is enchanted by 

the unplumbed color of the season 

and seems 

to want to hang from trees 

like crystal chandeliers, 

stretched and slowed 

by the fairy tale 

of coming cold 

til it lingers 

a little too long 

in midair—

like Cinderella did 

in the opulent glare 

of such an otherworldly ball—

with no ride home 

planned, and 

for no reason at all. 

WELL, ACTUALLY

What is it that provokes 

any clean 

quiet morning 

in all its perspicacious 

stillness 

to ripple 

and dither into 

just another day? 

Is energy 

just coiled matter 

which has not yet 

unfurled itself 

and deigned to appear? 

As I ask, I notice I'm not even 

looking for the answer, 

because if there's 

one thing I know, it's that 

by the time I'm done inquiring, 

every word 

is abandoned 

like a seashell 

on eternity's shore—

everything we know 

is gradually 

something else entirely, 

without any 

reference to lesser 

or more. 

REVELATION

Apocalypse 

doesn't come 

all at once—

there are packets. 

This is not 

despondence 

any more than 

it is fact. 

For truth 

is but a parasite 

on is-ness, 

says the prophet;

a virus 

which preys 

upon life's need 

for correspondence. 

PRIME MOVER

Each morning, 

I wonder 

where does it come from—

the intangible breeze 

that whispers in 

each morning 

to dissolve with its 

cool kiss the last 

of my dream logic 

and flirt 

just a bit with 

my diffident curtains? 

The uneven 

surface heating

due to elevation

which leads to 

pressure differentials 

on the far side of the planet.

But no, say my 

cold toes, that can't 

be the answer, can it? 

It's far too impersonal 

to have clambered 

through my window—and, 

to be the provocation 

that I need, 

far too certain. 

RANSOMWARE

Caucused 

atop the gray 

cornices at dawn, 

the silhouettes 

of crows 

argue with conviction 

the politics 

of lonesome 

as a trait 

or an affliction. 

* 

For my purposes,

down 

at the simulation's 

street view

(not to mention 

yours 

one level lower 

as a reader), 

it doesn't matter 

if this image 

is truth 

or fiction. 

*

Incepted in 

the latest version—

a stealth software update, 

a poetic snatch 

of code inserted—

you are programmed 

to imagine

 

that things 

could be worse:

these scavenger birds 

could yet be 

upgraded—

persuaded 

to peck stars 

from the skies 

of your thoughts 

like they were the all-

seeing eyes 

of the universe. 

WHITE FLAGS

Desperately petaled, 

these stalwart 

fall roses, 

worn and besotted 

as the clabbered 

lumps of cloud 

which now blot 

and bleach the sky 

on an undulating basis,

soon will have 

no prouder choice 

than to laugh 

as they—and my 

conflation of security 

with stasis—

crumple in the direction 

of momentum 

and collapse. 

TERMS AND CONDITIONS

We think we've got people 

all figured out—

then, 

we get to know them. 

Narcissists, 

philanthropists,

punctilious, 

cold—all of us 

are jars 

whose lids won't open.

But of course, 

from the harsh angles 

our distance 

imposed

the first time 

we nodded,

shook hands, 

or spoke, 

so much of this 

was obvious

that we confused ourselves 

on purpose. 

PRANAYAMA

In order to keep 

the words 

from repeating, 

I concentrate 

on the scenery 

of breathing. 

On mottled gray 

beaches, I watch 

with some relief 

as, one by one, waves 

take the place 

of one another—

each doomed one 

briefly assuming 

it's the first 

and the last 

to reach land—

and the best—

before relinquishing 

its grasp, ceding chattels 

to the next. 

And as I breathe out 

and in again, a fresh 

thought is expressed: 

I'm glad I'm not 

the only one 

who does that.

THE FIRST MYSTERY

Always in the beginning, 

we are told, 

there was something. 

But god 

is not some token 

or utterance 

to be spoken; 

rather, it's a faintly

indescribable feeling.

It's never hitting skip 

on the stars 

as they're wheeling

to get past 

the treacle and on 

to the good part; 

it's perpetually 

forgiving 

all now living 

for their coarse  

and unflattering 

imitation

while constantly 

fighting the screaming

temptation 

to fall madly in love 

with ideas, 

not people; 

it may sit on the tongue 

more palatably 

than sweetness, 

yet somehow 

more absinthian, 

more bitterly than bliss; 

it's saying out loud 

to no one: 

well wonders never cease! 

And: so what 

if there isn't a word 

for this? 

HOW TO MAKE GOD LAUGH

We plan days

like our lives 

are a game 

to be won. 

But strategy 

won't boost our luck—

not even a little.

Ruination 

is a certain 

as the punchline 

to a setup;

it's just

the length of our stay 

of execution, 

and the build-up to 

and the nature of

that devastation 

which beguile us 

like riddles

for just long enough

to keep us 

from asking 

the obvious questions.

ONLYS

What the mystic 

poet implies

is true: 

everything's 

connected. 

Only—

nobody knows how 

or why,

and not in a way 

that would

gratify you.

*

As the sun shifts downward, 

the little light 

that's left 

is the light 

that's most precious. 

Is that 

what is meant 

by clarity? 

Seeing 

that we're not seeing 

(only after we've lost it)

that fleeting 

bit

we're left with? 

*

If pleasure 

is only

the release 

of built-up tension, 

then once in a while,

I'm not too afraid 

to die.

THE PROBLEM OF INDUCTION

The same way 

in which sunbeams 

streaming blithely 

through clouds 

are taken to augur 

some sweetening 

of the future, 

so too 

are children 

taught through sheer 

repetition 

to cry out 

for the bygone 

the way 

the old gods cried 

for nectar.

* 

At the faintest blush

of the winter season, 

the heedless way 

gray geese careen 

overhead 

would seem 

to suggest 

that there's 

no such thing 

as treason. 

And yet, 

far be it from us 

to cite abandonment 

of instinct;

we prefer to dream 

of filaments 

connecting 

one thought 

to the next. So,

things fall apart—

this much is easy 

to accept;

the hard part is 

to repeatedly guess:

in what sequence? 

For what reason? 

ANNIHILATION PHASES

I'm so vein, I probably think 

this next thought 

is about me.

*

Now I'm so present, 

I probably think 

this world is just 

the sum of all 

the facts I have—minus 

my intentions. 

*

Now I'm so numbed 

by the irony 

of presence, 

it's hard 

to locate such 

displaced rage; 

from this distance, 

it's hardly efficacious 

to complain—

it's hardly judicious 

to call them 

my aches. 

FAREWELL SUMMER

In the recently 

neglected garden, 

the bleached-out dregs 

of zinnias sag.

Even the veteran 

pollinators,

who still cling to old dreams

in a few sunny patches, 

though they dimly recall 

fecundity's texture, 

are listless,

uninspired—as if 

no longer defenders

of some lost grand empire 

or its edifying, now all-

but-forgotten flag. 

DERRING-DO

If you're 

reading this, 

you're plummeting

swiftly 

through midair;

each word is

a cloud 

which first sounds 

like a mattress

til you blow 

right through it 

without slowing down.

But the good 

news is

there's a turn

at the end 

which is rushing up

to center itself

under your fall—

not with 

the pillow

of relevant info, 

but the small 

silk-soft 

pleasure 

of knowing 

in an instant 

that a poem

can support you

after all. 

SIMULATION THEORY DEBUNKED

The thing 

about our blandness 

is: it's bafflingly 

excessive. 

Like fictive hoards 

and digital legions 

of viruses, ghosts, 

angels, demons,

we admit 

to the possession 

of indistinct features—

but still

ten billion of us 

feel so mournful 

and desperate 

at this realization 

that in no sense 

could we ever be 

meaningfully convinced 

that we're 

figments—

or ciphers 

whose curves dance 

on pages—or bits 

of some childish-

ly alien intellect

which transmit 

their zettabytes 

of light-

hot confusion, but 

don't really exist.

TESTIMONY

As if turning on 

and off 

and on again 

was a baptism 

or holy communion, 

I saw

the city lights hesitate, 

hold back, 

deliberate 

and melt 

into the twilight, 

lending gravity 

to all space, 

frivolity 

to time. 

*

Alas, no description

is so well-formed

that it doesn't come 

with tight

little sparks 

between words—

electron gaps 

that cannot be constricted

but which cause one 

to wonder,

as one's default image 

of sky is recovered 

what on Earth 

happened there? 

And by what light 

was it depicted? 

THE COMEDOWN

For just a few 

seconds on a 

long enough drive, 

the sky is 

purple blue—

the clouds, 

a still plateau 

of dark but 

luminous folds—

not unlike 

the view

of a rose 

from the inside 

a day or two past 

the thrill

of full bloom.

LET'S PRETEND

When you were young, 

did you ever 

make-believe 

you were a loving mother? 

Was a wonderful 

mother ever 

not the perfect cover

for the God 

whom you adored 

but whose name 

must not be mentioned?

Back then, 

did you wonder 

how a few scraps 

of bread 

and a muttered amen 

could stand in 

for your redemption? 

What about now? 

Is a tender parent still 

a punitive savior?

How does one thing 

come to mean

another? 

TAMING THE TONGUE

Do you say 

you prefer 

music 

without words—

placid ponds

without their ripples—

innocent 

and easy 

to guileless 

and simple? 

What if

there is no pond 

on this Earth

which is deep enough

to conceal 

from our trawls 

the worst 

synonym 

for profundity? 

In that case 

(or in any), 

how do you explain 

your refusal 

to engage 

with the roiling pot 

of your least

attentive thoughts 

to your most 

demanding company? 

COMPLICATIONS

How is it 

that one sentence 

can both begin 

and end 

in the present?

Equivocally 

speaking, the past 

has been evacuated; 

the future will 

allude us.

There is, in effect, 

nowhere left 

on the page

to aim 

and vent 

our indefinite, 

limitless rage. 

*

We've all heard 

of suffering for fashion, 

but what happens 

when you become 

too attached 

to an impression—

a light mirage 

which is high-functioning,

a mascot 

of the marketing genius 

pulling out all the stops? 

Accommodating 

or not, 

every translucent bubble 

sooner or later 

pops.