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 carves off 

with its inexorable knife 

the gory 

yet nourishing 

gristle of the details

and winnows away 

the only latterly 

obvious chaff

of what mattered to us

so intensely once, 

but eventually, we must 

all humbly 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 wait—now, 

it's a starved dog 

jonesing for bones, 

excitedly pulling 

in all directions at once.

Which, of course, 

is another way of saying 

going 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 themselves, 

(and just as elemental)

are proffered down 

in patterned inches,

second after second:

perhaps existence 

is not a given thing.

After all, the heart 

must be 

gradually grown; 

even the soul, 

then, might 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. 

GENTRIFICATION

As I burn through my days, 

I think a lot 

of all the bodies 

this weathered old soul 

must have tarried

through by now—but 

(probably due 

to the tyranny 

of memory) 

somehow not 

often enough 

of the opposite: 

what battle-scarred hoards, 

all strange 

and complex, 

have tossed their lots 

in with this 

broom closet body, 

seizing it, 

razing it, 

building it up—

then selling it off 

at a loss 

or a profit? 

GEE

Day after day, 

while you focus 

on the sun—

and others, from 

the sound of it, 

on the revving 

of their engines—

those tight faces 

at the ends 

of the lilac bush branches 

remain blank 

and unresponsive 

to the chorus 

of birdsong at dusk 

and dawn

and the quickening 

green of the adjacent 

park lawn. 

But of course, 

one morning, those grimaces 

will loosen 

and redeem their cached 

sweetness 

in busts of fragrant glee—

and you'll think how, 

in the grand scheme, 

it only takes a blink 

for everything  

to happen—

but an awfully long 

and lonely time 

for anything 

to mean. 

IMAGISM

Has anything ever 

come out 

the way 

you meant it to? 

Would any bright cocktail 

of gadabout words 

go down as 

rococo

as your point 

of view?

*

Just tell them—

how the leaves 

looked black 

in the last light 

as the canopy 

and the loam beneath 

unhurriedly 

equalized.

*

At last, the night sky 

was so 

phosphorescent-bright 

with the staggering 

pollution 

of downtown lights 

that words 

had no meaning—

the rock bottom 

you were needing. 

I DARE YOU TO

say 

at what distance 

objects begin 

to flatten 

and thin 

and collapse 

into images.

And where 

(in the wings,

the apron,

the proscenium?) 

is this sort of thing 

keen 

to insist

upon happening? 

*

tell me 

you're clever 

without being 

clever,

or pathetic 

without sounding 

rude,

or human 

without coming off 

ruthlessly savage, 

marbled 

with decadent flecks 

of absurd. 

*

Everyone's heard—

a picture 

is worth a thousand words. 

But 

just you try 

writing down 

or explaining 

to them afterwards 

exactly which ones 

those were. 

TRAGEDY OF THE COMMONS

As a tree is pure 

conflation 

of the earth 

with its atmosphere, 

what are we 

doing here? 

Drawing breaths 

for our "selves" 

with the pencil-

thin siphon 

of self-interest 

(an indelible 

theft) from the well 

of all being.

DECIDOPHOBIA

A mighty fortress 

is our 

precomtemplation phase.

It's our 

prayer 

and our privilege 

not 

to comprehend this.

*

Picture the interminable

sea of electrons 

all tugging 

like tethered cubs 

at their  

lackadaisical nuclei.  

Who the hell are you 

and I  

to feel at ease 

with anything? 

*

On the other hand—

*

Meanwhile, somewhere 

above the north Atlantic, 

a majestic 

arc of terns 

swoops and takes its 

morning dip 

without ever once 

resolving itself 

into a file of distinct 

individuals. 

EITHER WAY

I know it's
cliché, but

really:

the spaces 

are for all 

the things 

I'm not saying. 

Look, I'm not 

making 

excuses; 

even music 

uses silence—

or is it 

silence that uses 

music 

to both 

introduce and 

excuse itself? 

Either way, 

it's plain 

(and also 

elaborate—

are you 

starting to 

get it?) 

that nothing 

you could explain 

exists 

solely at its 

own discretion. 

ALMOST SUMMER POEM

Cradled 

by the shade 

of a softly 

weeping crab apple, 

starlings 

bathing in the blossom-

spattered puddle—

stowaways, 

perhaps,

from some ancient 

sylvan past—

or else, 

augurs 

sent back (by 

ourselves?)

as a promise: 

the best is still

ahead of us. 

WHY I WRITE, MK. III

It's not to speak 

my mind 

at all, 

but rather

to climb 

inside the language 

like a power suit, 

like chainmail—

to feel huge 

and yet invisible, 

buoyantly quixotic 

in a world 

full of windmills—

to feel utterly protected, 

secure in my belief 

in the feats 

of which it's capable—

and yet still, 

when I get 

near an ending,

to flail;

to panic, then 

go limp;

to let go 

and admit 

I don't know shit—

and

even if I did, 

I surely 

haven't said it. 

R0

Something new is going around. 

It's been said 

(and now, so much

repeated) 

that the birds 

or insects started it.

Incongruous, 

unwelcome—

it doesn't care; 

it hops the line and 

pops up everywhere.

Tough luck, they say; 

no escape 

form this zombie. 

The best you can 

do is climb 

willingly inside it, 

surrender your head, 

fill your mouth 

with its replicants: 

"What's new?"

"How are you?" 

None can withstand it. 

And it's far too late 

to stop it (if you're 

reading this,

that's obvious). 

In all manners 

of speaking, the virus 

of utterance

 

has spread across the planet.