XMAS VACATION

Looking out at last, 

an esoteric sight made simple

unties some Gordian 

knot in the heart: 

the distant rumpled

office buildings 

hang there lighter 

in the wind-dimpled air, 

looking more frail 

in weak afternoon light 

and empty now 

of all who might 

have illumined the lamps 

that would yellow their windows. 

Rarely does such a singular quiet 

chime with such curious harmony;

and only once 

or twice a year, maybe, 

does such solitude and emptiness 

invite anticipation 

and foster in us this 

benign repose. 

HOSTAGE

If you're reading this, 

it's already too late; 

you are helpless 

as a goddamned lamb;

You've been forced 

to guess forensics 

from these negatives 

of experience. 

Meaning reigns  

like rain rains—

you must 

try to understand. 

NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION

To try again 

at wanting 

to be honest, 

to be common. 

To learn from the young 

to be blithe 

but look sullen. 

To break it 

into pieces 

too profuse 

to be included. 

To quit trying 

to fix it, 

accept it, 

or reject it—but 

just to learn 

from my cruelty 

and rudeness 

how best 

to be human.

EASY COME EASY GO

Most would agree 

that survival 

is transactional—

that every private

joke and vision,

no matter how 

expensive, hard won, 

or implausible,

in some sense

is cheap, since it's both 

extant and available. 

But that still doesn't mean 

we can afford 

what we need,

or that we won't get killed 

on the cost 

of the upkeep. 

Just ask these meningitic 

December trees 

(although they probably 

don't need to tell you) 

how—precious or ubiquitous, 

pragmatic or unnecessary—

there came no warranties 

on their latterly defective 

umbrellas of leaves. 

ARS ARTIS

Credit 

where credit 

is due: 

to the Long Run—

when words, 

though they 

aren't yours,

will still come 

unbidden. Under 

the old sun, 

nothing 

is new—but 

rearranging its

small bits 

is still called 

a breakthrough. 

THE POEM I DELETED BEFORE I WROTE THIS ONE

was curved 

like the intricate

folds of a rose petal;

each line—frail 

and furtive and perfumed 

with allusion—

would bend back 

on the last in soft 

laps of recursion  

to cradle 

at its absent center

such untarnished answers 

to all of my 

most pressing 

metaphysical questions 

that each seemed 

to gleam like a galaxy

of water, 

spiraled-out 

and kissing its neighbor 

in the interstellar void. 

And yet, 

despite the untold wonders 

of insight it contained, 

I feel better 

just for knowing 

I am willing to destroy

and satisfied 

that I have passed a test 

I often flounder at:

that of applying 

the courage required 

to extinguish information 

whether or not 

I am sure of its value—

and whether 

it's equal to 

or greater than the hubris 

of creation. 

LOGOS

Under the cover 

of another darkly 

dawning day in December, 

I can just make out 

the distant shapes 

of dozens of hectoring 

arboreal animals—

but despite the barren 

blankness which 

surrounds them, 

their incessant clamor 

in the snarl of branches 

is clear and bright 

and new and urgent.

At the end of the year, 

they sing to one other,

not of the new 

world to come 

hereafter, but, 

over and over, 

of all that came before—

distilled 

to a fusillade of one 

repeating word. 

Being a poor excuse 

for bird, I myself 

am not sure, 

but I think that word 

must be immemorial: 

that which must not  

be forgotten, 

but cannot be 

remembered, either.

WINTER BREAK

Windsound 

of untold 

ice-tongued bells; 

pleasurably 

sharp snick 

of salt 

beneath boot soles—

I am not going 

to work today; 

I am not 

sure what 

else to say. 

*

Time's arrow, so much 

like your sun-

illumined shadow, 

no matter where

or how you roam, is always 

pointed elsewhere. 

Infinity 

is the feeling you get

that you might, 

like a beam of star-

light, strain the borders 

of forever; 

while eternity 

is the way the thieving 

darkness seems to cling—

that sinking feeling 

of seeing 

past the universe 

but always, interminably 

of being 

right there. 

DAILY DRIVER

If death is a hotshot 

sadomasochistic stunt pilot, 

desperation is 

the unassuming, 

ruthlessly efficient 

chauffeur of my life—

impeccably liveried, 

morning, noon, and night

and willing to work 

for the pittance

of experience—

I'm so pleased

to watch it weave 

around the traffic 

of my common sense, 

bypassing 

all self-respect

to get me 

to the tomb 

on time. 

TOTEM

To the woodpecker—

little desperate-

ly industrious sap sucker, 

pilfering what 

deaf torpid 

insects you can 

and extracting, 

while you're at it,

whatever little bits 

of calcified sweetness 

this maple may

have scrimped 

and stowed away 

in the marrow of its 

snow covered limbs: 

what advice do you proffer 

for the winter ahead? 

With your dots 

and mad dashes, 

what Morse code 

message do you send

to the feather-

poor soul which is 

mired down below? 

Grim or perseverant—

which posture 

toward the end 

do you portend for all 

the living and their 

tokens of the dead? 

D-LIST

Most of us wish  

to be famous 

for our looks,

but the fact is 

a beautiful face 

is half-distinctive, 

half-ambiguous. 

Not incisive; 

not disgusting—

like a sudden 

vague pang 

of recognition 

through the rain. 

What we want 

more than fortune

and way more 

than fame 

is the subtle power 

to trigger nostalgia; 

to make another 

tingle with suspicion 

and that lust 

for just in case;

not to be seen, 

but to have been 

seen somewhere before;

not to be named, 

but at last

to be placed.  

HARMONY I

My hurts 

are not your hurts—

but I’ve heard they might 

vibrate 

sympathetically; 

and that, at least 

to me, is music. 

HOW MANY ANGELS CAN DANCE ON THE HEAD OF A PIN?

It seems God 

is omnipotent 

like the novelist is: 

from Adam and Eve 

to Japheth, Shem, and Ham, 

many of his 

best characters 

just "got away" from him.

*

Religious conviction 

is math 

without numbers,

gravity 

that doesn't attract;

it's all the little things 

without their preponderance—

as if 

the breadth 

of the next world 

could outstrip 

this one's 

impermanence.  

*

The number of galaxies 

is now thought 

to be so numerous 

as to border on 

the commomplace

and conjure up 

the frivolous;

points of light 

so ubiquitous, 

they're used 

to end independent 

clauses.

The grains of sand 

in Saturn's rings 

and the surplus of it 

which fringes our beaches 

number infinitely more 

than all the humans 

who have ever lived, 

but still less 

than all the words 

we collect 

to fill in the smallest

awkward pauses. 

THE HARD PROBLEM

We like to think 

of our thoughts 

as cosmic objects:

true, most of them 

are space junk—orphan 

asteroids and comets 

with tails made of dust 

debris, and ice chunks—

but a few bright ideas 

really capture our attention, 

and we call these 

main attractions 

stalwart stars 

and pilgrim planets. 

But we mustn't forget 

that, from masters thesis 

to default-mode chatter, 

all of these are really

just disturbances

of matter 

in the vast and untearable 

space-time known as 

consciousness, 

bending it and warping it 

to their own 

obtuse purposes, 

but nonetheless always 

so hopelessly embedded—

so enmeshed in the limitless, 

and purposeless fabric 

which is alternately

known as "what it's like" 

and "how it is." 

FROZEN ASSETS

Rife with 

the numb white of ice 

though it is, 

the grizzled old 

December wind 

can't quite 

erase these last 

riots of leaf color—

such fortunes 

of mock-gold 

and ember-red treasures 

as my forebearers 

greedily burned 

down the world for 

now cached (as if 

under glass) 

on the stiff

ice-shagged branches, 

soon 

to disintegrate, yet 

transcending all transaction—

an unprofitable sight

with the year 

almost done

which is 

current to all

and currency 

to no one. 

CODEPENDENTS

You know 

this body 

will betray you 

like Judas—

if, that is, 

your continued use 

does not undermine

and undo it first.

It's less 

a game of chicken 

than a suicide 

mission, which 

neither of you 

can hope to win—

and yet, 

neither can cope 

with the other's 

refusing.