CLARITY

After another 

all-night bacchanal, 

the bewilderment 

in me 

falling 

drunk asleep. 

VICIOUS CYCLE

From time 

to time, the old 

guilt goes—in a flutter 

of the heart, 

perhaps, or churn 

of the stomach. 

Then, like some 

defenseless animal 

desperate to attach, 

it always comes back. 

But from where 

does it return?

And how hard 

was walking its 

arduous path? 

I'm ashamed 

to admit it, but—

I never think to ask. 

THE WORK

Well past noon, 

I still sit 

at the writing desk 

waiting for the violence, 

for the language 

to crack.

Words come 

(when they come) 

one by one, 

wet and slack;

as primeval 

subspecies 

from the ocean 

of doubt.

And one by one, 

I wring them out 

and hang them 

on the line of silence. 

But this isn't 

a method 

of making something

so much as 

a way of marking 

time.

STARS

Night after night, 

their mild light 

trickles 

like the ardor 

of a mother for her 

tenderest child—

like drizzle 

from the heights of some 

unfathomable past—

but in spite of this 

fact, and our hours 

in quiet contact, 

 

we still somehow 

wake up to find 

we've grown older. 

HEARSAY AND CONJECTURE

In a coming of age tale 

of the future, I wonder

whose fitful dream 

could have conjured 

this reality? 

So I blunder toward words 

until they rip themselves 

to shreds, 

until my thoughts

climb up trees 

to be crucified 

willingly; 

and I keep my ear pressed 

against the cold ground 

of indifference—

is it the sound 

of rapture 

or repugnance?—

I think: 

any ignorance

this profound 

must be on the brink 

of revelation. 

WINTER SOLSTICE

The way 

gaunt crows prowl 

the desolate 

playground after 

sundown,

as if scavenging 

for a reason to endure 

amid the empty packages 

of HotHands 

and Doritos there—

so tattered 

are the feathers 

at the tail-

end of December;

so unconscionably 

cruel has been 

the season 

of foreclosure.

GROUNDWORK

Because shadows 

when it starts 

getting late 

colonize walls 

and mute their colors; 

because, in warm 

window light pouring 

from coffee shops, 

strangers 

look familiar; 

because old snow 

on pasture contracts 

and grows smoother 

and the foreground

on the interstate

moves faster 

than the landscape—

we suppose 

there must be 

complex rules 

governing even 

the simplest place, 

so, although we 

can scarcely 

keep ourselves awake, 

we'd best stick 

around a while longer

to investigate. 

GASLIT

Distant but familiar 

nursery rhyme of church bells

chiming off the hour somewhere 

past these lonely lanes—

their chiding, inflexible 

machinations 

threaten to cleave 

the present moment 

again and again 

and again—

til I'm willing 

to believe 

that there is treasure 

in the ruthless,

comfort 

in old things,

freedom 

and pleasure 

in the scheme 

of automation. 

THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS

If we had perfect 

understanding, 

wouldn't 

nothing 

seem unjust? 

Wouldn't past events 

and sins acquit us,

and tenacious tendrils 

lose their grip? 

And if so, 

wouldn't the true 

extent of it 

seem suddenly choosy, 

and mean, 

and irrelevant? And, 

without such stiff analysis 

cinching us like dirt, 

wouldn't all

assurance erode 

from beneath us? 

Wouldn't our most 

precious roots 

start to rip?

FIGMENT

I suppose

then and now 

were the same 

moment once—

like strangers 

whose pasts ring 

eerily similar. 

Perhaps this is how 

my description

of your absence 

over time grows 

more precise—

and yet less  

and less familiar. 

RETREAD

All novel thoughts 

contract like vice grips

purpose-built to close. 

The path not taken 

can be just so 

only once—

as soon as we choose it, 

it becomes 

the one we chose. 

Everywhere we 

freely go, the rut of our 

compliance widens,

and, having 

arrived at our 

goals, we will find

we stand both

on the shoulders of giants 

and of roads.

WHAT A CONCEPT

Rather like 

the ether, 

our intention 

is a kind 

of filler material— 

a padding-

out of action, 

a quantum 

mechanical 

patch that fills holes—

made of pure 

surplus; indivisible

but significant 

to the being 

and propagation 

of our own 

satisfaction 

with words 

we deliberately aim

to invoke 

like purpose

and essence 

and soul. 

A MOMENT'S PEACE

Slow 

but inexorable drift 

of castles—

palaces of weightless 

whiteness sailing 

overhead—

each of them bliss-

fully empty 

of occupants—

no rulers, just 

inculpable 

massless structures

stockpiling light 

in splendid tenements 

of glass. 

ETERNAL RECURRENCE

Sleep comes 

like a blowhard,

insisting on itself—

talking all 

sweetly, putting 

the charm on. 

And we,

all too willing 

to give it one last chance—

to listen, 

to go along—

to let 

ourselves get

conned. 

LISTENING TO MUSIC

Is time 

transformed 

to the waiting 

room of space? 

Or has space leapt 

into time—all enclosures 

into soaring?

All we can know 

is that there is 

a flow, 

but to say in which direction 

(as if reduction 

were the sole 

rationale 

for our perception) 

might not bear 

repetition—

might begin 

to sound excessive, 

or worse, so 

extraordinarily 

boring. 

READING POETRY

The work is not 

to understand, 

deliberate, or make 

an inference; 

it's not so much 

interpreting as 

staring 

down a word 

until it means 

something—

then nothing—

then everything—

and at last,

if you're lucky, 

finally just 

itself again—only

now with that

explicitly 

unspeakable bit 

of difference. 

WIDE RELEASE

So swift 

and brutal was the nature 

of adversity—

so compressed 

and ruthless-

ly cut 

the montage 

of our troubles—

that, stock 

plot or not, sooner 

or later 

it became easy 

to convince ourselves 

we were living 

through a movie. 

First, as protagonists; 

later, as actors; 

and finally, 

as popcorn 

munchers staying 

for the credits

and only just 

now dimly 

trying to summon

the effort to stand 

up and exit 

the theater.

ACROBATS

What sort of creatures

both expect

and remember? 

It seems

since we left 

the trees, 

the rocks, 

the beach, 

the ocean, 

that some agents 

of destruction 

have been selling us

on adventure;

some reckless advisors 

have been whispering 

at our side. 

Their performances, 

however 

disingenuous, 

have been riveting—

but notice 

how that's no kind 

of answer. 

NOTE TO SELF

Just now, feeling heartened

by the clamor 

of December geese 

who scrape the sky 

on their bracing 

dash for sunnier climes—

but wait a minute—

why?

Because they remind me 

of all the others 

out there

who sound

and who look just 

the same in my mind, 

only fainter, 

because smaller, 

farther away, grayer—

but who, in their 

way, first reminded me 

of these.

UNFAIR

What sort of creature 

is the opposite 

of habit? 

Behavior as 

digression,

as estrangement 

with the past; 

reason 

as nostalgia,

and motive, 

a best-

dressed contest. 

Before I learned 

of devils, 

I might have been convinced 

that my actions 

were equal 

parts frivolous 

and blessed. 

HALF-TRUTH

As two hands 

draw together,

and each tented finger 

arcs to connect 

with its 

chiral mate, 

old power lines 

tilt inward 

and cradle gray roads. 

How, body 

by body, the world aches

to befriend itself—

how there's no earthly 

way of ever saying 

what it's like.