ALLEGORY OF THE CAVE

When I close my 

eyes, do I still 

exist?—perhaps 

in Plato's sense 

that a shadow exists:

both 

in the absence 

and because of 

the light? And

in my diminished state, 

will I fear 

the brave sun, who, 

despite 

the benevolent 

look on his face, 

shall not be denied, 

long-deceived, 

or obscured? 

In the dark, I can 

feel the right and 

ruinous effulgence 

of the voice of that star, 

which is above 

all admonition,

like a thunderbolt—

cracking huge blocks 

of form and matter 

extant in my mind 

into slivers of 

this essence, 

which I, 

thus accosted, must

open my eyes 

if I ever hope 

to measure. 

LOGORRHEA

We have it 

on good, if somewhat 

tacit authority—

we can even taste it 

in the fear (which comes 

drizzled in lust)

constantly secreted 

by the tips of 

our tongues—

that some perilous, 

inky, imperious 

blot 

should inexorably appear 

at the end 

of every sentence.

Life's labor, then, consists

in approaching 

this limit,

as doomed stuntmen 

who ride for the edge, 

but don't hit it—

until we crash 

and wreck 

that babble tower, 

with silence 

as our penance.

THE PERSISTENCE OF MEMORY

Art may 

instruct us

in so far as 

it doesn't. 

The most striking

brushstrokes

or words 

of a poem 

are, at best, crumbs 

of dust

which the weakest shaft 

of errant light 

that meanders 

though a window 

may seem, for one 

bright moment, 

to transpose

into a road—

but the end of that line 

is a cul-de-sac  

where we loop

through the circle 

of knowing 

what we knew 

as the marvelous friction  

of that fraught recollection 

warms some frozen

feeling back.

FORGET ABOUT YOUR TROUBLES

If your cares won't 

collapse, and 

you can't 

get to sleep,

instead of 

the cheap stuff 

like blessings 

or sheep,  

try counting 

the billions 

of other people's 

eyelids—

those delicate, 

intimate, 

crepe paper-

textured things, 

careworn 

but dignified 

as a second-

prize rose—

which, up to

this minute, have 

crumpled 

and closed—

not reflexive- 

or self-possessedly, 

not in brief or 

by design, 

but both helpless- 

and definitively:

for the very 

last time.

BOXELDER SUTRA

Roots that dig deep

enough to feel 

the heat of hell,

and tips that reach 

to scrape the diamonds 

undergirding heaven;

appendages which shake, 

bend, and 

quiver themselves to pieces 

 

with the littlest hint

of oncoming wind, 

yet which always resolve 

to remain spread 

wide open 

and stiff 

in the pose of 

perpetual giving;

but above all, 

a fierce and 

obstinate reluctance 

to admit 

when you've been killed

and abandon your position, 

and just as fierce 

a willingness  

to come back 

to life in six months 

and forgive.

All of this—

and nothing less, 

and all of the time, 

and all of your life—

is what it will take 

if you ever expect,

in spite 

of the callous 

vicissitudes of seasons,

to stand in the dirt—

and the light—

and to live.

WELCOME TO UNCANNY VALLEY

I guess this is progress—

finally, I've begun 

to wonder 

what I'm supposed to do 

with your pictures.

After all 

these years, your face 

still looks the same to me, 

whereas I'd swear 

up and down, I'm so 

very much older 

even than I appear 

in the mirror 

at this moment—

old enough, at any 

rate, at least 

to understand 

how the pieces of us 

which might still interact 

are far 

from the proper or 

obvious suspects. 

It's a bit like 

how the instrument 

which is responsible 

for singing 

is itself, in practice, 

mysteriously silent—

and the similar 

mechanism by which 

the song's witness 

is compelled to linger 

there and listen, 

while equally 

primitive, is completely 

invisible—or at least 

remains very

ingeniously hidden. 

TESTAMENT

When I make a point

to say it, does the pathos

of a half-moon 

made of crinkled-

but-unblemished paper 

in a sky 

of ink make 

sense to you? 

My guess is—the linguists 

were wrong 

about the world we interact in 

being really made 

of grammar. 

But perhaps, 

what there is 

is a pyramid 

of syntax—a chain 

of command 

in those words

which are good—

a hierarchy 

of all those

mysterious phrases

which swirl and tumble 

and jockey 

in our chests 

like still-

forming pearls for the 

chance to be expressed—

yet which 

cannot be grasped 

or appraised, just 

understood.