CHAUVINIST CHRIST

In my mind, I love
the way

it's—just me
having ideas,

but it's only
she—who really
stitches them 

all together.

YOU FIRST MISTAKE

Stop thinking 

outside the box—so much,

and get back

to the task

at-hand—taping 

it shut.

TRAVEL WRITER

It is not!

that he doesn't know
exactly where he's going,

enthusiasm-sized travel mug 

plugged close and doing all the smoking for him,

and strapped sockless (for the tone that sets)

into his kitchen's hazardous best 

go at a sporty rental;

it's just that he's still undecided 

on the most efficient—and yet

ecumenical way to end

up there.

And so—detouring, meanwhile, 

through passive voice back alleys

and ruins of ancient metaphors toppled,

and zigzagging would
and should
and could
and all those other vivid red auxiliary flags—

the enthusiast 

most thoroughly manages—to pique 

the stomach 

of his ideal passenger a little

by showing 

her

only—that stuff which

is not.

ARTISANAL

Scooping, at his desire
and leisure, mighty gobs
of all Fall! in his
prodigious fists—

the mouthfeel of every orangecream
and milkwhite
slice of hot candied root-
vegetable pie,

the fiery pop
of innumerable plumes
of little sugar maple boughs
presently dolloping

every single near
and far
ruddy crescent of almond-
shaped hill,

and even! that speech,
borne on chilled nightwinds
made by each one of those rusty cemetery
gates's wrought-iron screeching,

that the dead you loved
are buried
and that
is final—

and then, proceeding to melt
and squeeze them all together,
under unfathomable heat
and incalculable pressure,

by turns, the unfaltering
glassbender—moves yet another
paperweight closer
to fulfilling today's order.

GRAPPLING HOOK

Deliberately digging in

to something

tender there

and hidden

at the top of her—

secretly

I climbed

by nights;

only—to wind up 

stuck 

when the lights came on

nowhere 

near the brittle drop 

ceiling,

twisting 

from a 

knot, and marveling—

how she! 

was also 

my only emergency contact.

INSPIRATION

The sun—at a quarter

past November,

is an

orange flower blossom—

turning 

in skies 

the character 

of shallow water—

and taking 

very 

slow-

and casually its unfurling; 

as if softly

laughing—in the face of 

every 

meticulous

clock—commissioned

in its honor.

EXTRA INNINGS

On the one side—exactly the right series 

of deftly pitched

words,

exhibiting

just the right spin

to affect a slight curve,

could 

irrevocably
change the world.

Then again, on the other—better,

by a long shot, to go 

running-

off 

in all directions

at once, however recklessly—

than to ever come across 

as lazy, 

or 

late, or 

cagey, or worse-

still, some banned word 

like—irresolved.