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.