TRUISM

The heart of most matters

is so trivial 

that it's radical—

crisis is the bleeding ink 

which blooms its 

beautiful terrible roses 

all through the tattered 

blotting paper 

of existence 

with the wastefulness 

of death and quiet

poise of gravity,

til you're just 

about ready to toss 

the whole mess

but still recoil 

at the thought 

that one day

you'll be forced

in any case 

to give it all away. 

INFINITE LOOP

Perhaps consciousness is 

recognizing the motions 

as such 

while you're going 

through them, instead 

of only after—

to become, after death, 

less a ghost 

than a photon 

that has no past 

no future, 

no friction—

and for whom 

the notion of transport 

from point to point is trivial. 

It is pointless 

to establish a motive 

or inaction; 

before you walk 

through its 

unbounded door,

the future is a repeating 

remainder 

called nowhere,  

and as soon as you 

leave here, you'll 

already be there. 

FAILING UP

I hate to admit it 

every bit as much 

as you do, but 

it's true that our most hated 

parts might be the places 

that simultaneously 

lust most intensely 

for somebody 

(anyone) to come 

to the rescue,

and those awful weights

which tug like stubborn 

anchors at our centers 

and ground us 

to our murky strife 

are the ones that 

imbue us with the metal 

that sustains us,

drawing our hearts

like iron filings to a magnet 

to the world next door

which summons us 

to wake into

and voluntarily (if not 

enthusiastically) suffer 

through a better life.

NOSTALGIA

It's the way 

the slightest 

autumn breeze 

fans the blaze 

of summer's 

faded green—

tugs at the frail 

leaves of 

memory's trees, 

reminding the penitent 

who now brace

for winter

of a distant sea 

of aquamarine,

placid and reflective 

of those skies 

above of endless 

daylight,

and that humid hum 

of bliss which seemed 

to overlay each night

and sing the praises 

of everything 

it was in life

and the legend 

of how it would 

come to be 

eventually  

so fondly mistaken 

for everything it wasn't. 

ROOMS TO LET

There are no exceptions;

any love 

that comes to us 

is a love that must 

sooner or later go.

This much we know, but

to make it 

even more deceptive, 

think of all 

the disconcerting 

aliases it uses—

pity and self-

loathing, 

pride and fear 

and avarice. 

And notice, when all 

of these feelings 

flea, 

how each one

inevitably seems 

to leave the same way—

at roughly same speed, 

and from roughly 

the same place.

But luckily, as those 

who've invested 

in beauty can attest,

beauty is not a feeling;

beauty is a space.

In fact, it's the space

where all of those fugitive 

feelings were living;

and, of course, even after 

a fugitive leaves, 

the place 

where it was living 

stays. 

CHRYSANTHEMUM'S THE WORD

Frowzy mock-flowers

of beat-rug orange, 

attention-deficit red, 

and afterimage yellow—

cordial, but ragged 

as the coming autumn clouds; 

they do not offend 

with their brand 

of hocus pocus, 

nor beg for our attention 

like high summer's 

neon dandies—

because, although 

too impregnable 

to be moved by the wind, 

they know, 

deep in the closed-fisted 

swirl of each corolla, 

that it's too late 

in the year now 

to hope for a perfect body 

and was always 

just plain foolish 

to wish for an unblemished soul. 

NECESSITY

How I've grown 

to resent you, mother 

of invention—

when I fear 

I lack the courage, 

your intention 

is always 

to rush right in 

and suckle me to sleep 

on wisdom; 

when I say 

I have a problem, 

you are quick 

to dispatch it 

with a solution. 

But although it's 

all very timely 

and clever, 

therein lies 

the contraction: 

what you give 

so freely  

is the answer; 

what I crave is 

your attention. 

THE ANSWER

It's what the angel whispered 

just before 

you were born—

and what you'll presently 

foolishly fritter 

your life away, 

scorn by scorn, trying 

to remember: 

like all you encounter, 

she'll be simple 

to understand

until you start 

to love her. 

JUDGEMENT DAY

To help make sense 

of eternity's math 

equation, let 

the afterlife 

be equal to 

endless equivocation. 

*

The real first sacred mystery 

is that, after the creation, 

god would find himself 

of several minds 

about seeing his image 

in the mirror again. 

*

After listening 

to their speeches 

and sermons for so long, 

they start to sound less

like accusations 

and more like 

clever loopholes 

or contextual breeches:

in heaven 

you'll be surrounded 

by familiar faces—

the only difference 

in hell is you'll see them 

in bewilderingly 

unfamiliar situations 

and places.

NO MATCH FOR MY INTRANSIGENCE

How could I be 

like the sea? 

When I'm angry, 

do I grow, at once, both 

overlarge and hungry; 

Do I heavy myself

ceaseless at the grungy 

rocks of reason, 

then blot candor's sky 

with the foam of my fury, 

withering grace 

with briny excoriations  

at the rational edge

of each shore 

where I go? 

How could I be 

like the sea, I repeat

and demand 

that you answer me—though 

I don't want to know.

THE REAL CONVERGENCE OF THE TWAIN

By September, flecks 

of jaundice-yellow 

marble the once brassy 

green of leaves. So it seems 

the need to mix 

frivolity and grief—

to kiss Aurora wide-awake 

and Snow White deep-asleep—

was never the province 

of men and women 

in the street's worst 

thoughts and machinations.

The stimulus 

is ductless, 

wireless, general;

the response,

decided from the start. 

Agony is the blood 

in the heart 

of every child of levity. 

THAT'S ENTERTAINMENT

Could it be 

that your thoughts—

just like

individual pigeons—

simply take pleasure 

in glomming together, 

swooping 

in formation 

over life's roofs 

and branches—then 

fracturing again 

at the slam 

of a car door, or 

the odd boom 

of thunder, or 

the approach of another 

creature who is lost 

in just such a musing? 

At first, the observation 

is a little confusing; 

then suddenly, all this

retreating and reforming 

starts to seem 

more like 

an endgame 

than a metaphor.

You're not sure 

what it is, but 

there's probably 

a lesson here.

LOVECRAFTIAN

It's almost unreal—

how, after a particularly 

horrific showing,

we obsessively 

ravage ourselves—

conjuring the dead 

and plumbing 

the unsympathetic

depths of the encounter—

until 

we've impossibly 

managed to dredge up

some unholy. 

tentacle-dragging, 

irrefutable cause 

who's black 

hole and absolute-

zero existence,

as evinced 

by the uncategorical 

engorgement of our dread,

we'll never 

forget, but were 

better off not knowing. 

THERE ARE OTHER WORLDS THAN THESE

To the sparrow 

who must have got caught 

in the grill 

of this brand new,

fully-loaded, 

midnight black Camry:

who'll speak for you now 

as the flies close in?

I suppose 

that I will—though only 

through roundabout 

questions, I'm afraid, 

whose answers can be 

felt, but they can't 

be explained. 

For instance—how  

in the world do things stay 

where we put them? 

And—is God the you

that watches you 

from deep inside your head? 

Was anything sacred 

before that word 

was invented? 

And, if nothing at all,

does that mean

everything, then? 

GOD'S EYE VIEW

It doesn't really matter 

how closely you hover—

those thick darkened riffs 

of parkland clover,

all silky with glissandi 

of tuneful morning dew, 

cannot change your 

luck for you. It's true,

that byzantine bead structure 

is a Morse code of water 

which spells the whole story 

and moral of your future—

but in order to read it

or hear how it's singing, 

you'd have to have already 

known everything.

SPIDERWEB

Gossamer 

song;

weightless 

aubade;

terse canny 

stanzas, clad in 

dew-clotted thread—

even your maker, 

her highness, 

is frightened 

by the ticklish 

recitation of this

ravishing poem, since 

she knows 

in her soul where each 

filament came from,

yet maintains 

no awareness 

of how it 

got made.

HUMAN KINDNESS

An enigmatic  

rain puddle—

gunmetal 

gray 

as a blank-

faced cloud—

that no one 

dares step in

because 

the assurance

that it must have 

a bottom 

is only, after all, 

a milk-safe

presumption. 

PRACTICAL EFFECTS

Mostly, our lives 

are the portraits 

of unglamorous—

they're like movies 

that can't stop forgetting 

their own plot twists. 

Yet,

there are days 

on the set 

when the sky is a halfway-

decent watercolor, 

the distant forest 

a matte painting 

so vivid and so still 

as to border on suspicious. 

And there, 

deep in shadows 

the color of ashes, 

soundtracked 

by the lapping 

smack of water 

and the drone of bees 

far to lazy to sting, 

we can't shake the feeling 

that the air we breathe 

has been keeping 

thick secrets; 

that maybe—just maybe, 

there might be 

something to this. 

THE GIST

As ever, it is early 

when I start upon 

my journey, 

and the trees 

to whom I've pledged 

to listen 

lean down 

with their heavy 

burden of sleep, 

branches still filled 

with the thick 

mist of night, 

and whisper to me 

in their rustling stupor 

in a language which 

no man could ever 

hope to speak 

because there is 

no code to decipher. 

So who am I 

to render any of this, 

I wonder—let alone 

interpret?

No being could record 

such ancient words—

and really, 

no one has to try;

no living thing 

need sightread 

the wind's song, since 

deep inside, they've 

already got it 

memorized. 

GOOD GIRL

Everything you do 

is done with 

full attention;

any action 

undertaken, 

anything you feel 

as unconcealed 

as possible—and 

generally successful. 

Most would call 

a life like that 

austere—strict meditation. 

But to brand it 

at all names the hair, 

not the dog—

besides, 

a simpler word 

is prayer. 

ACT OF CONTRITION

I suppose enough 

words have been 

wasted on this, but 

without the force 

of love's 

greed to restrain us, 

what downward 

pressure would 

ever be great enough 

to push us once 

or twice in a life

to our knees 

with such resolute 

and terrible ease—

what better place 

from which to see:

what better 

posture than this 

from which

to worship or 

to grieve? 

ON THE TIP OF MY TONGUE

Still feeling 

for words, 

as if with 

my fingers,

wishing I could 

hold on 

to the beat 

of each syllable—

but that pulse 

which runs 

though the veins 

of your name 

is weakening 

steadily, 

and the memory 

grows pale. 

Never mind 

desirable—

retirement 

is inevitable:

what's built will 

collapse—but 

what's built upon's 

still there. 

Corporeality 

fails and founders; it's 

only what's invisible 

that prevails. 

FUTILITY LOOKS

a lot like me 

with both hands cupped 

around my lips, as if 

trying to save 

one breath 

for the future—then 

flinging 

the door shut 

to the freezer 

where it's kept,

so that way, 

I won't have to 

chase it down 

and catch it 

at the end 

of that sentence,

with no liturgy left 

on which to depend

and no 

ritualistic dance step 

on which I might 

elaborate—

IT'S THE LITTLE THINGS

Ghost white 

gull feather, still 

gliding down:

teach me 

to love 

the world as it is now—

not as it was 

when you 

plied the wind above,

and not as it 

will be once you 

finally touch,

then softly 

push to move 

the ground.

ABSENCE AS AESTHETIC

Day by day, 

minute 

by minute, 

we content ourselves 

with the imposition 

of our will 

to persist 

upon arbitrariness

and then call 

the newly minted thing fate.

All along the balance beam, 

we prance 

or we cling 

to this gangplank 

that bridges 

the gap between 

the playthings we were 

and the devils 

we're becoming,

capitulating 

to the passing of every 

present moment 

as sweetly as we accept 

the juiciest 

orange is lined with 

rind and pith—

as if 

we could convincingly 

assent to live 

the lives we were 

already born with.

HELIOLATRY

Is it the least bit 

mysterious why I 

worship the sun? 

I too can't resist 

being the center 

of attention.

I too exist to fuse 

the littlest things into 

less wieldy objects,

even though I know 

that will soon

present a problem.

I too am content 

to have lifelong 

dependents 

and too eager 

to let them confuse 

heat with passion, 

light with 

understanding, 

warmth with love.

I too have 

never questioned

my reason for being. 

I too don't ever sleep, 

consumed as I am 

by this need to burn things. 

 

DEATH OF THE AUTHOR

In the grocery 

store lot, 

a carrion crow 

makes a loud 

show of its 

roadkill inspection 

before taking-off 

with guts 

trailing from its mouth 

and leaving 

in its wake just one 

single spectacular 

feather 

of implausibly 

iridescent sable.

And the moral 

of this fable, as it drifts, 

shimmers, settles? 

That god may well 

be a crook

or a sham—but 

the glory 

of creation? Well 

and truly: god damn.

THAT'S THE LIFE FOR ME

It feels not the least 

bit shocking to admit 

from this perch 

where I sit among 

the torrents of today 

that I am not jealous 

of the freedom of water 

to flow and change 

shape and ride 

gravity with ease—

or of light 

to trade its weight 

for the twin eternities 

of everlasting present 

and neverending speed; 

rather, I am jealous 

of the freedom of trees 

to grow slow

and carefully 

into their positions,

and then, to just maintain 

their balance—

to hold fast 

to that erstwhile, 

hard-won shape—

in brief: to simply 

stubbornly stay 

in one blissful 

place for the rest 

of their eternity. 

QUALIFICATIONS

At noon, near the old church, 

just before its clock tower 

chimes the hour, 

I pass a small pack 

of starlings in the garden grass, 

huddled in their daily practice 

of warming-up 

their murmurations—

and in that moment, 

how I wish

that I could quit lurking 

and dredge up the courage 

to ask to join their choir. 

I don't know the songs, 

I'd admit off the bat—

yet I know how to sing,

and I swear that I'm 

equal parts proud 

and dismayed 

as any blithe impulse 

to praise would dictate

to confess 

that I don't get at all 

how that works. 

ANY WAY WE CAN

As so often 

in the park, crust scraps,

casually tossed 

in the wood chips,

attract an array 

of scattershot pigeons 

grateful for this 

providence,

graceless in their privilege 

to underplay their 

daily bread,

to embody the question—

how dare we live 

these lives 

we've been given? 

NIGHTFALL

How suddenly 

it lands now, 

like a crack 

in the jaw

which stuns you 

into silence

and makes you feel 

sorry 

for the illicit

yet broad-

daylight tryst 

that you saw. 

ALMANAC

Late summer, when the vapors 

of nearly three-months-

worth of memories 

seem to alight 

and shine for one moment 

on August's dustiest surfaces 

before sinking beneath them 

and into the soil, 

where avaricious weeds—

though outwardly 

enthusiastic as ever 

for moisture—

have nonetheless slowed 

down the pace 

of their growth,

as if each one was 

privately shaken 

in its faith 

by the sudden appearance 

of just one 

yellowed leaf. 

Nearby, in this earlier, 

heavier breed of shade, 

sparrows chortle 

for reasons which none 

of the weeds can know, and 

not even they can remember. 

AVAILABILITY BIAS

More difficult 

to think about 

than it is to see

why darkness is known

as the absence of light—not 

the other way around. 

Be it ether, waves, 

or particles, only substance 

can beguile us, 

so it seems that 

even life's biggest puzzles 

must contain pieces. 

When night falls, for instance, 

we tend to focus 

on the stars, 

and not on the unnerving 

fact of their bone-

whiteness—

or the loneliness 

which chokes space to tarry 

emptiness between them—

or how the vastness 

of that very emptiness 

only exponentially increases.

GOSPEL

Dry cool whisper 

of the breeze 

through the leaves, 

how I wish 

I could discern 

what you're saying; 

how I wish we could 

converse 

so that I might ask

in a low, wordless moan 

of my own

where it is 

you come from. 

Is it where some think—

from the far edge 

of the planet? 

Or across space 

from the waving 

of ancient stars, 

or the windmill 

of distantly

spiraling galaxies?

More likely, I suspect 

it's from the ghosts 

of all my future selves 

passing through me

right this second,

like the wind—that is: 

oblivious;

not howling 

for my attention;

not trying to teach 

or warn me of anything

because silence to them 

is more than repetition—

it's the god's

honest truth—or 

what I might call

non-fiction. 

THE LONG HAUL

          Yet man is born unto trouble, 

          as the sparks fly upward.

               -Job 5:7
 

Yes, it's true; 

when all is said and done, 

there are going to be days 

when every 

swallow of coffee 

is hollow—

when none of the books 

on your shelf 

want to talk to you

while your pen 

strains to ask 

with its recondite scratches

if an indoor place exists

that wasn't made 

to hold-in grief,

or an outdoor place 

that that doesn't breed 

loneliness and sorrow.

In brief, there'll be days 

when taking 

feels like giving;

when, for all you know, it's 

your shadow 

casting you. But, 

since who the hell are you

to tell the difference 

between the two—

let lone the difference 

between someday 

and tomorrow—

you must bow down 

to the catch-all called 

the long haul; 

you must resign it all

and just call this

living. 

DOMINION

A long time ago, 

we used to be 

suspicious, 

but now 

we stand in awe 

of abject predictability; 

instead of living 

in ecstatic terror 

of god's everlasting arms, 

we now worship 

their compliance 

and fantastic portability.

In fact, if he 

were still 

alive today, 

he'd mostly 

be shocked

and hurt by the way 

in which knowledge is 

crushed-up to pave 

the roads to power—

by the way our GPS 

now briskly 

redirects us 

around temple wrecks 

and flaming 

sword blockages, 

all while keeping us

abreast of our most 

current ETA—

but mostly, 

by the way in which

a single earthly moment 

is no longer suffered 

by its bearer 

or endured—

or even simply 

received 

or sustained—

but rather, is abjectly 

captured, 

then explained. 

SO THERE

Even the almighty 

river doesn't know 

how it is I manage 

to piss standing up. 

LATE AUGUST

A parched wind 

limps by—

stiff and cautious, 

yet unsteady 

as our exhaled breaths.

How did we

get here? None 

can guess;

the weeks have passed 

so fast—still

each day feels

like twenty years. 

NEVERTHELESS

Every day, once a day,
I get the urge 

to do the impossible:

to save what must leave,

to give weight to words

(though I make no claim

to understand
what they name)

and a hope-like shape
to tumultuous thought.

Is it reckless? Is it vein?
I ought to say 

I don’t care.

But if you think about it,
the very fact
that this poem appears here,

lying patient as a snare
in the middle of this page

(or this screen, or wherever)—

and eager to catch
that which must pass away

already betrays
that I do anyway.

deny it as I might,

the urge to write—

the compulsion
to tell someone

has somehow caught me
unaware that I’m sure

there's no such thing

as an art
of despair.

MORTALITY

A cheap store-bought wind chime

(though no less

hungry for the breeze);

its many small lapping tongues

of bell bronze

or bell brass—

or hell, I 

don’t know, of prefab

fiberglass, perhaps—

making me forget 

as I pass underneath

what silence sounds like—

then remember (however 

temporarily)

what it means.

DAWN SKETCH

Out from the shadows,
a new morning is growing

in the window—like the shores 

of another, alien world 

unfurled for the first time 

at the calm of low tide,

salved by the balm
of a prophecy unheralded

and washed in colors
never seen before by anyone—

except perhaps by the first eye

to get squeezed shut 

at night beneath some 

primordial lid.

Does a word exist for this 

new twist on existence?

The other side of night
is daylight, sure, 

but the other side

of darkness in its essence—

would that be called clearness?
Invisibility? In any case,

it must be a color 

worth savoring, because it's 

a color we haven’t 

got a name for.

THE ENCOUNTER

I swear, when I wrote this

I didn't know
who would be reading—

but then again, 

I must have known roughly

how it would go, since

I could picture you singing

the tune in your head—
line after line, 

never rushing, never stumbling,

not stopping until 

you got to the end—

as if you knew which word 

should come next 

by heart,

because you and I 

were the same.
Not entirely, of course,

 
but close enough

to look the part.

It was as if our two souls 

shared a shadow; as if, 

for half a minute there,

we were so busy

that we wouldn't have

remembered, if asked, 

what our names were.

And I realized

when I'd finished that

that was what I wanted;

the words didn't matter.

It wasn’t quite art—but it was 
a good start.

NEW POETICS

I don't know how 

Aristotle managed 

to miss this, 

but: catharsis 

is gradual;

I mean, it’s 

every little 

blade of a tear

carving-out 

an opening—

ruining your precious 

metal content 

bit by bit

by repeatedly exposing 

some of it 

to the air—but

by doing so, 

in the long run

saving you 

the hassle 

of keeping it all 

together 

and making space 

there.

NOW

All I pretend to own, 

you loaned me; 

all that I know 

or care for 

has only just appeared here—

without my seeing 

how it came, or 

from where.

And when you bear it away—

as I believe you must do

because you have told me so 

repeatedly before—

I suppose I do not have 

to wonder 

what time it will be 

when that happens, either. 

NOT FROM CONCENTRATE

How many hundreds 

of millions 

of years have been 

forcibly focused 

through just-this-second's 

lens—and then,

never to be used 

again, discarded as the pulp 

of the spurious past? 

What a terrible 

waste, in fact, that 

that which is now must be 

squeezed-fresh continuously 

from all that has ever happened—

not to mention

how little hope there is 

for this moment's 

perseverance, since 

every hard-won is that ever was 

didn't last much 

past its own definition.

SERMON ON THE LAWN

Bees in the clover
working, diligent
and noiseless—

too busy, 

in fact, to stop 

and challenge us thus

as we drag out
our gas mowers,
edgers, and hoses:

you think you know
how to work,
how to use,

how to speak 

to the taciturn

land like us?

Those who have nothing
want nothing,
gain multitudes;

those who know everything
have everything
to lose.

ASKING THE ORACLE

To the gray-faced gulls 

outside my window, 

husbanded here 

by the breath of the dawn—

though my questions 

number in the millions, 

in this moment, 

I just want to know 

if you think 

every wind is distinct—

or is there, in truth, really 

only one kind 

which gets passed 

around and forward 

in space and in time?

In short, 

is it more

like the seafoam 

which drove you 

to this building, 

or the way 

we all suspect 

that there was

a first yawn—

issued-forth at the end 

of day seven by God,

and ever since then riding 

this great wave of animality 

for untold—

and as-yet-

unfolding-into

eternity—eons? 

TARGET AUDIENCE

Sometimes 

my soul talks 

down to my body;

says I know 

you think you hear 

the wind in the trees—

think you recognize 

the melody—

but you don't 

appreciate it 

like I can, 

since you don't 

understand 

what the lyrics mean.

Which is just 

as well, since, 

from the branches in the breeze, 

to the rippling 

of water and the wild 

screams of flowers—in fact, 

everything 

wafting out from 

life's orchestra pit—

though you may 

catch it, you are not 

the demographic, 

and don't you forget it

whatever you do:

the world may be here

to appear to you—but 

to me, it's here 

to sing. 

PERISH THE THOUGHT

As if I 

could do that. 

As if there were simply 

a hex I could cast. 

As if I could ever

grant myself permission 

to wrap these

tense hands around its 

incorporeal throat—

or grab 

for some ethereal, 

existential pillow 

to smother 

its monotonous mouth 

without guilt—

some divine length

of piano wire 

that wouldn't leave welts,

or some metaphysical 

potion, purpose-built 

to snuff its lights out,

leaving 

no residue 

of murderous intent

and me, though

newly-listed as sole 

inheritor of its estate,

still somehow 

bathed in the good 

graces of its family members—

in particular, its 

attractively built 

younger sister. 

{}

Empty set, I 

eye your symbols 

with inexplicable dread, 

like a pair 

of hungry rusted 

calipers on the page

or two 

of a disappointed fence's 

warped boards, 

long past brown now 

and headed more 

towards gray

as you don't so much

circumscribe as

underline what remains:

the size of a place 

when nothing there

is left, 

and there's nothing 

left to be done;

the truth

that absence 

is not the same 

as nothingness

(for absence 

is a vacancy in space—

whereas nothingness 

is the full weight 

of space 

and vacancy's absence);

and the fear that, 

after this, quite enough 

has been said.

ENLIGHTENED PESSIMISM

As the regal sun 

processed in the sky

the only way it's able

and white gold

from the window inched 

inexorably through the room—

I was the one 

true witness 

to the sight 

of the half-empty glass 

on the bright side 

of the table.

 

PLANNED OBSOLESCENCE

Bad news for 

all that time 

and effort you'd been spending:

your heart's 

no longer warrantied 

by the lyric poem's defending.

Sure, for now, 

it still works 

to its purpose, but 

let's face it—it certainly 

is no state-

of-the-art thing. 

If your body were a car, 

for instance, it wouldn't be 

the engine; 

it'd be 

the rear defroster 

or the AM/FM radio. 

If your soul 

were a home, 

it wouldn't be the kitchen, 

or even an electric 

toaster oven; 

it'd be 

the old flip phone 

which you keep 

in a drawer,

just for those 

gray-sky kind

of sentimental days 

(it may be 

a brick, you say, 

but it still contains 

a few 

of your favorite 

dead cat's old photos). 

HUNGER

Hello, 

common thief—

back again, 

I see 

to steal 

a little 

more of my 

complacency.

FUCK IT

It's dangerous, they say, 

to paint with 

too broad a brush, but 

you know what? Sometimes 

you're in a rush. 

Plus, the predicament 

you're in couldn't be 

more legitimate: the crew 

is on a break 

which is starting to look 

more like a 

permanent hiatus—

and this guilty 

conscience of a fence 

won't just 

paint itself—so, 

holding your breath 

against the stench 

of the whitewash, 

you bust-out 

the biggest, widest 

roller of the bunch

and make short, bliss-

fully thoughtless work 

of what otherwise might 

have taken months 

to confront.

After all, you think,

what harm could it do—

just this once? 

GILDING THE QUOTIDIAN

The water birds sailing 

in search of Byzantium 

are now touching down 
on this flash-flooded town

in search of oases—some 

retention pond of youth, 

some inside-out aquifer 

or impromptu estuary—

like Ponce de León,
like Noah’s enervated raven,

like thousands of Parsifals 
burnt out on the quest—

driven by thirst to steal 

rain from gutter puddles

in a soggy pantomime 

of Promethean fire 

or nectar from some presently

nigh-uncountable 

overstock remainder 

of Holy Grails. 

FINAL JEOPARDY

          (after Robert Creeley)

Walking here, 

standing there, 

killing time 

and yawning—

sitting around 

talking, thinking, 

tinkering 

with the longing 

for anything 

to start, stop, 

bind, or burst 

into flame; 

for anyone 

to come or go, 

to curse or keen-

ly call your name—

what is a life 

when you haul-

out its engine and 

take it apart? What is 

a car 

that won't start.

FREE DESIGN

In the deep end 

of dawn—before our words 

have begun their 

long commutes, 

when the warm washed 

light of the sun 

overcomes last night's 

unsoothed moon—

cicadas begin 

their empty drone, 

wind-stippled 

grasses moan, 

wild birds sing 

to no purpose at all. 

Here, nothing in the world

has a name—still

everything 

has a voice;

nothing has been 

given a choice—but 

everything 

is called. 

EXTRA ORDINARY

Being so much

wiser than her husband, 

the female cardinal 

perching on the brown branch 

knows better than 

to make a statement. 

ANIMAL CONTROL

As an idea, love 

is an easy one 

to hold; 

it's fun to imagine 

bold gestures, 

kind words. But 

when you finally 

catch it, it bites

and scratches—

it soils your lap 

with its piss 

and turds—

and the second 

you loosen 

your grip, it disappears 

down a little burrow 

where you're too 

stout to follow. 

And you say,

I've learned my lesson,

but you haven't 

learned a thing.

So you'll wait 

at the entrance

all night if you have to—

just to be near it,

just to participate.

In the rain, 

in the wind—

you're exultant 

to do it—you'll keep 

this holy vigil. You will 

softly sing. 

EVERYDAY BREAKING POINTS

From the way, July evenings,

at the tiniest quake  

in the gathering 

gray, the rodents 

all burrow,

the sparrows 

pull-up stakes,

and even the proudest 

blossoms of summer 

surrender 

and invert 

their petals—it is plain:

all must submit 

to the thunder’s

mad authority;

all beauty 

is contingent—must exist 

on the border

of abysses, 

of Charybdis's fantastic

maw of ancient chaos. 

What a precious 

and terrible gift 

we've been given—

this graceless susceptibility 

to vicissitudes of wind;

this indomitable 

ground; this savage,

hellish heaven. 

APOGEE

Experimental

used to mean: based 

on experience.

Am I aging, then, 

less like dry 

sherry in the bottle—

not into quotidian 

tradition or senescence—

but rather

toward the vanguard, 

the eccentric, 

the unstable? 

Perhaps,

rather than enable 

its denial,

age 

is time (that daft abstraction) 

turning real.

Or—a good

scientist would add—

so it feels. 

MAJOR ARCANA

What does the cuttlefish 

grasp 

about water?

What do those 

winging crows behold

in the air? 

Or the wind—for her 

part, does she hear

her own singing?

As for me—fathoming

age 

and regret, 

the way day 

bends to night,

the encroachment 

of shadow—

what words 

do I expect 

to ferment 

from the experience?

Of inchoate, 

relentless, 

illiterate fear—what 

could anyone know?

HUMMINGBIRDS

Mono-

maniacal 

genuine 

articles—

actual 

virtual particles.

Speed 

given shape, 

given hue,

given thrum.

Messengers 

of Hermes—

whence 

did you come?

Iridescent 

temples—the place 

where thrum 

comes from.

RE-ILLUSIONMENT AT 2AM

An old sailor:
sailing, and 
sailing some more—

until finally 

moored amid 

the neon somewhere 

downtown, among 

nighthawks still-

drunk at the diner—

and halfway 

between sleep 

and awake at the counter, 

that's where

he caught his last
red weather tiger,

whom, rather than holler 

when clutched, 
roared with fury

his hot-breathed 

rejoinder: a distinct

Sayonara!

A farewell, 

thought the sailor,

to dithering, to clinging—

pitched halfway between
(but exquisitely 
neither)

a permanent goodbye 

and a blurry
see you later.

EQUANIMITY

Inland gull—

bobbing 

through the parking lot at dawn,

calmly 

courting alms 

from the unmoved cars;

hungry for litter, 

but mostly  

in the abstract—

lonely, 

but not 

unhappy altogether.

SENESCENCE

Eventually, the set 

of {who you are}

feels like nothing 

when weighed against

the traces

of all you might have been:

things you thought

but never said,

actions you've considered

but haven't ever taken

pass out and in 

like shallow breaths

and through you 

each day like 

ionizing radiation—

like battalions of ghosts 

whom you used to 

know by name,

but now, whose 

faint collective 

hunger gnaws away 

at those serifs 

which ornament each

glyph of DNA 

until finally, it's

illegible, and you're free 

to join their army.

VOLTE-FACE

If there's another Earth 

where things 

worked out—

where the bees all

stuck around

and the birds

maintained their weight—

where a pretty fence 

built from

coordinating conjunctions 

has made cordial

neighbors of Church 

and State—

where, instead of 

swiping strangers and 

sexting AI, 

you and I linger 

over coffee and pie 

(even as I type this)

in a round-the-clock diner—

where anyone 

who lied, or wouldn't 

look me in the eye 

is tortured asymmetrically 

for their crimes by 

Delphic prophecy 

first haunting, then 

unhinging them, then

driving them to blindness—

what good 

would any of these

distant fictions do me?

My dharma 

is the clusterfuck; 

my armament 

is kindness. 

WHAT'S THAT

As above, so below—

what a crock, 

and what a shame.

Precision machine-

beveled right angles jut

as street numbers 

sprout from 

grids like grave 

anatomical ribs;

everything bisectable—

everything 

must heed its label. Only, 

just on the other side 

of that great looking glass:

the sky—

which, 

otherwise,

doesn't need a name.

SHADOW

Not quite 

darkness or light—

neither noise 

nor silence—

how readily you volunteer 

to wade out ahead of me

and strip me of all of my 

nonessentiality; 

it is your murk which clarifies  

the complicated truths 

of this blandness, 

this coolness, this need 

to be aloof. 

Such a circumstantial absence, 

such ambiguous 

truth—it is you 

who comes to teach me, 

without absolutes,

how yet I might live 

in a world that needs ministry 

in fullness—

but still

at the slightest 

remove.

LESS THAN YOU THINK

Any truth which is whole 

could not be yours 

to own—

it's been fermented 

by the grasses, the zephyrs, 

the stones.

For god is not 

in all things—

that's too lonely, 

and it's simpler:

god is the total; 

god is all things. 

Your injuries 

were loaned, as 

actuality is rented.

TWILIGHT OF THE IDOLS

          Is man merely a mistake of God's?

          Or God merely a mistake of man's?

               -Neitzsche

Some causal chains 

are so long, thought 

cannot wind them;

others, as inexorable 

as the final chord in songs.

Quirky and immortal

and mercurial 

as quarks—

as wiseacre cartoon 

rabbits, pigs, and ducks—

the first gods must have sprung 

from the volcanic 

islands of our minds

as general outlines,

suggested by the anxious 

agitation of our motions—

then grew tall

and strong on all

the sugar, fat, and salt 

of our desperate hopes 

and fevered questions, 

til at last they turned 

misshapen 

and strange,

which gradually changed 

into strange-

ly quiet—

then dead-

silent—

then 

dead-wrong. 

THE SHARP END OF THE SPEAR

In the end, every life

is a dull heavy shaft 

which is suddenly honed 

to a breathtaking point; 

and each, the sole bearer's 

precious own to lose, 

the splendid 

and the simple one.

Given time, good and bad 

fade to ignorance—then pity; 

after ignominy, 

after fame, 

there waits the same 

oblivion. 

MATURITY

Less of a ripening 

than a 

tipping point involved:

all that it takes 

is one 

or two more problems 

than commensurate tomorrows 

in which 

they can be solved. 

FINALLY

My name: 

one mighty 

syllable—

wind 

through arborvitae; 

say it 

softly if you will—

if you must,

you won't be 

capable. 

SUMMER SOLSTICE

In tune 

with the fanfare 

of solar noon, 

gold-fuzzed bees drift by 

confused, gassed with the scent 

of a million flowers;

and birdsongs 

are launched 

from a cache of cool rocks, 

then pitched at you 

underhand 

by the same clement wind. 

But what measure is disguised 

by glinting treasure 

troves of light? 

One day, you might 

appraise this as the longest 

of your life.

ODYSSEYS

Year after year, 

we inure, 

stay aloof; 

we insulate our ears 

from the siren 

song of future—or else,

disguise ourselves 

from ourselves 

to walk like a ghost 

through the Ithaca 

of our hearts—

which only serves,

to all we meet,

as proof of how engrossed—

how invested 

we still are—

in our most 

deceitful 

and adulterous parts. 

DEMOTION

And here 

I think I am

all alone—

think I am

the subject 

of this poem—

when a trio of round bees 

lands, keen 

but conscientiously 

to steal

from the rough

swirls of clover where I sit

those leading-man kisses, 

which go on

long enough 

to make me feel 

invisible—yet more 

than a little embarrassed.

CODEPENDENCE

What is faith 

but the process 

of making up shapes 

in my mouth 

as I go? 

There is no—

there is no—

no such thing as— 

a correct structure, 

I stutter; 

yet I can't 

shake the feeling 

that something 

must come next. 

* 

Not to sound 

defeatist, 

or morose—but 

I'm a completist, so 

carve it on my stone: 

Here Lies A Sucker 

For Matters Of Course. 

Reality may be 

a bad marriage, 

but I'm far too 

invested in it now 

to divorce; 

in fact, the quicker 

time passes, 

the less and less 

I notice 

the flicker.  

WILDFLOWERS

From pasture 

to parkland, parkland 

to landfill,

from swirl of hills 

to roadside ditch,

let the nominal 

pests and invasives 

proliferate—

their odd-

numbered petals, 

their frowsy leaves

once drenched 

with the curious

blue rain of night, 

now lousy 

with inviolate light—

filthy with 

the summer wind. 

A WORKING MODEL OF EXPERIENCE

If the past is 

just a joke 

whose punchline we 

have memorized, 

and the future 

is a cruise ship 

whose tagline is 

"unsinkable," 

then the present 

must be the decimal repeating 

after all 

that we're capable 

of recording 

with our devices 

is divided 

by all that we still find 

unthinkable. 

*

If the past 

is me knowing 

what everyone was thinking, 

and the future 

is a party 

in a room I can't picture, 

then the present 

must be the one I'm in 

now: 

on the couch

unamused, surrounded 

by strangers. 

*

To wake up 

and find myself 

in the middle 

of a sentence—

it's like 

I've just come-to 

in the freefall 

of existence, 

hurtling downward 

toward an "is" 

that won't discriminate. 

What's it like 

for you? 

A HUMBLING EXPERIENCE

While we rise, dig 

deep, strap 

in, and hunker down, 

clouds—

in the background 

every morning, 

do-si-do-ing.

Clouds 

joining, separating, freely 

flowing, 

and unbound.

Clouds without debt; 

clouds intent 

on nothing. 

Clouds never tired 

of involving one another. 

Clouds with borders 

so blurry and porous

as to make 

us stop and think 

(at least, 

if not 

in such a callous rush): 

no wonder 

they're so far 

above us.

LITTLE SHOCKS

Little shocks

of sidewalk clover 

discreetly peeking 

through concrete:

I see you 

make the most 

of the constraints 

imposed upon you, 

and I know we 

all have a thing 

or two 

to learn about

negotiations.

How the center 

of something 

might be the frontier.

And how life 

in the city is 

a hostage situation. 

UNMENTIONABLES

Fantasy: 

I want to be 

phase-locked 

like a V

of wild geese—

each one 

in perfect 

continuous sync, 

while avoiding the rest 

at all costs.

*

Solidity.

Permanence.

(let's face it,

such words 

are great comfort, 

but those things

just aren't beautiful; 

in fact it's 

quite the opposite.)

*

On the very long trip 

from speech 

to silence, 

I often want to say 

I feel 

self-obsessed 

one minute, 

and completely 

abstract the next;

I guess,

at its best, 

the mind is like 

a Crayola crayon box: 

bigger is always better—

and full 

of colors 

that don't exist 

yet. 

LONG-TERM STRATEGIES

1. 

Scent chemicals start 

turning keys in their locks, 

performing the dance 

of a nuclear 

launch sequence,

unleashing a vivid

technicolor attack. 

2.

Reality 

is a game show 

wherein participants 

must concentrate 

harder than the rest 

to solve 

even the littlest 

problems. 

3. 

The present moment 

is a time-out 

in the knock-em-down 

grudge match 

between future and past 

so that fans 

can adjust themselves 

and doubt 

can sell ads. 

4.

The aching cry 

of a minor third:

denial too 

can be beautiful.

On a long enough time line, 

perhaps 

the sheer stamina 

of my intransigence 

will start

to surprise you. 

GODSEND

The way 

fingertips pause, 

poised over letters 

suggests

that vague clouds 

skating in from the west

first survey

your neighborhood 

for interesting sounds 

before morphing 

into their 

reciprocating shapes—

suggests verbs 

once roamed the great 

plains of the page 

before Proper Nouns came 

to tranquilize 

and train them for the circus—

suggests meaning 

is a desert lake 

which ripples in the distance, 

and purpose 

isn't given to us 

pre-ordained—but made. 

CALISTHENICS

As the sun's rays

always find the beech trees 

reaching, 

flotsam at their feet, 

fingers splayed 

toward heaven—

so too 

do we loyally practice 

and pose, 

day after day, 

those words which sound 

most durable,

pressing 

and holding them firm 

to the foreground, 

conjuring 

from the blur of motion 

resolute convictions,

posturing allegiances, 

bootstrapping 

blind faith. 

SHOE STORM

And all this time, here we were 

anxiously waiting 

for a second one to fall—

the sky went dark 

as the front moved in, but 

we didn't move—or notice at all. 

The downpour was sudden 

as the change 

of our confusion 

to a mood 

of sheer relinquishment 

and penitent compliance 

as we gave up keeping track 

of each split-

second oscillation 

between the odd 

and even counts of them 

now landing all around—

these little reprimands 

from heaven

to the acquiescent ground.

WILD HONEY

With a warmness 

so soft that it's 

almost unbearable, 

the June wind coaxes 

the lavender open. 

At intervals which quicken,

each equal-parts-

furtive-and-

articulate blossom 

glows ultraviolet 

with innocence 

and inspiration—

a fecund mix

and elicit solicitation—

not to you or me, 

but the pollen-

mad bees whose 

deepening thrum 

now saturates existence

with the sweetest 

kind of greed. 

ENTREATY

I do not seek 

to travel the world, 

to lose myself 

in space; 

my wish 

is to be free 

as a tree is 

to stay forever 

in one place—

to just do 

the same thing 

endlessly, 

posed 

like I don't care. 

Such slender, double-

jointed limbs 

would do neither 

harm nor 

irritable reaching; 

such tender leaves 

and gossamer flowers

would always be 

oblivious 

to their reality's contingency

and eagerly 

invite beseeching.

However rooted, I

am sure 

that beings like these 

are less of the earth 

than they are 

of the air—and that,

for every ten minutes 

which I endure here, 

they, in their 

reverie, have dreamed

a thousand years. 

RENDER

As some mothers 

eat their young—

as an electron spits 

and then swallows 

its own photons—

so time 

first stretches, 

makes life's landmarks 

look distinct; 

then,

comes back 

hard

and fast 

and smashes them all flat 

as we hurry nervously 

on. 

*

Does faith find you

pushing 

certain words 

to the foreground?  

Bending and posing 

them like double-

jointed dolls? 

Wherefore 

this desire 

to bathe and clothe 

bewilderment,

to render 

unto sound,

to reconcile 

at all? 

*

Before I pose 

another question, 

let's define our terms: 

just because we 

"exchange" explanations 

doesn't mean 

we own them.

COMFORT—

the tender smell 

of steam 

as it's leaving

the potato.

DEFECTS

Strange to say 

"that's all 

in the past," since 

the past is 

not a location 

in space.

Even stranger, 

perhaps, that 

we have no access 

to the crucibles 

that made us 

the blades we are today.

Then again, it's not

our remembrance 

of the blaze 

that sustains us; it's 

the little imperfections—

those niggling 

and persistent 

small aches 

that remind us 

we're still 

the same weapons 

we were yesterday. 

CURRICULUM VITAE

Warm smoothness 

of a few slate gray 

pebbles on the mantlepiece—

so far away 

from their frenzied 

ocean past 

on this 

declassé tuesday 

that it might just not exist. 

Suddenly, the intent to dust 

around them fumes 

to reverie 

as you finger 

and fiddle for the whim

that bid you carry them:

never mind 

what's useful 

or true; a life 

is all 

about what's 

necessary. 

OF THE ESSENCE

Time is not so nice 

and benign as 

a flat circle; 

time is a screwlock, 

a pitiless vice, 

extracting the vigor, 

then discarding 

the pulp of life.

The longer we may live, 

the more we may 

grow horrified

at our resign as it flays

with its inexorable knife 

the gory- 

yet-nourishing 

gristle of the details

and winnows away 

the now- 

obvious chaff

of what once mattered 

so intensely to us,

but which we 

must finally admit 

to be dust.

TERMS

The wider

your gaze, the more 

it becomes clear 

that the universe behaves 

like a simple equation 

in which the terms 

on either side are mirror

images of each other. 

Perhaps this is why 

you and I can exist 

on opposite sides 

of a sagital plane, 

yet still dream 

the same dreams;

still laugh 

at the same memes;

still remain, at all times, 

so perfectly in sync. 

Because ours, 

like all systems,

is a complex operation—

a galactic 

combination-factory-

floor-and-call-center. 

Or no—

it's a starved dog 

jonesing for bones, 

excitedly pulling 

in all directions at once.

Which, of course, 

is another way of saying 

it goes nowhere. 

INTERMISSION

While you just sit 

and listen 

in the sixty-

second eye of the storm 

known as noon, 

the last desperate chime 

of church bells—

keening, 

then dissolving 

in the ambient mist 

reminds you of 

(or perhaps 

replaces?) 

the weight 

of your grief and dis-

consolation. 

For to whom 

on this earth 

does a silent moment

answer? 

Though you're perfectly still, 

some part of you 

dances.

AHA MOMENT

Under the shade 

of the hackberry tree,

new leaves—light 

as ideas, and just 

as elemental—

are proffered down 

in patterns which 

resemble complex sentences.

Perhaps existence 

is not a given thing;

it's known, after all,

that the heart 

must be 

gradually grown—so, 

wouldn't the soul,

too, have to be

eventual?

DOGGY

Great, great 

grand descendant 

of the noblest race 

of beasts—

you who deigned 

to live at our feet, 

but who never ate

of that fruit—

your soul 

is pristine, so 

how can it be 

that you too

are doomed to 

one day die?

HEALTHY BOUNDARIES

Next time you feel 

lonely, or

a bit unsure 

of how things fit 

together, 

remember:

your body is,

at all times,

precision-filled—

in fact, it's 

practically packed 

to the gills—

with miraculous 

acids and 

everlasting bases—

both of which 

are necessary—

in exactly 

equal measure—

and both of which 

are so movingly 

and desperate-

ly dependent 

upon one another

being there,

but also—always 

keeping clear.

IT'S LIKE THIS

Feelings 

can only be said 

to exist 

in relation 

(by comparison, 

that is) to one another. 

Therefore 

we must know, 

deep down, 

what bliss is—

since 

we cannot possibly be alone 

with this. 

*

Clipped phases 

seem to wander the brain 

like children 

in a dark forest. 

Even conjunctions—

those erstwhile 

breadcrumbs—

will not successfully join 

or contrast them. 

All paths to understanding 

overgrow 

and are erased. 

Only periodically 

now do they leave their cave 

and wander in circles, 

lost.

*

Every time I feel 

a disturbance, 

I might split 

and wind up in two places, 

retaining the former 

memory of both. 

Strangers in the hereafter? 

Perhaps—but 

accomplices, 

more so.