MADE GOOD

When all in me is 

quiet, 

but the sound of that quietness 

chuckles

and hums;

when this cursor 

is still

and the page is still 

empty, 

but the inquest is over 

and the sentencing

is done—

let it be 

because 

there is nothing 

I am seeking—

no salve 

or succor 

for holes 

bored-in deep by cold forceps 

of grief 

or bruises drained dry 

by their long search 

for a cause;

none who must see 

for themselves 

need come—

no one 

will know 

how perfected

I was.

TURING TEST

Stop! What is the shape 

of pure, white 

expediency?

Light 

"on its way" 

from nowhere 

to everything? Or

God 

getting stumped

by a CAPTCHA 

before he's allowed 

to complete the next transfer?

"This could take 

forever," we 

mutter (although,

strictly, that's not possible),

as if time 

were our material 

and could thusly 

get corrupted;  

As if truth—

or whatever 

the light is, 

for that matter—

could ever 

be grasped. 

But not grasped 

like held-up—

grasped 

like

interrupted.

PROVISIONAL

After the true shape 

of a thing 

is disclosed, 

it becomes trivially 

easy to expose its 

rough seams. 

The past, for instance, 

is now fixed—a living death— 

in memory,

and we quickly grow 

nostalgic 

for present tense's old

unpredictability. 

And so, 

we get busy—

we plot 

charts, invent 

astrologies—conferring 

purpose 

on the fleeing stars, 

after failing 

to remember any.

DENOUEMENT

When we think of ourselves

as critical viewers, 

nothing that's 

out there can 

shock us anymore. 

Fingering apocalypse, 

sniffing fresh

collapse, 

watching lurid

bombs fall—we'll thumb our lip 

and wonder 

is this serious 

film a real 

Oscar contender? 

And we'll wait 

(we've learned

how by now) 

for that lull 

before the credits roll 

to skillfully allow 

our drawn appearance 

to unbound, 

hoping—

now that the danger 

of hurt is averted, 

now that this crisis 

of faith is resolved—

the usual combination 

of darkness 

and music 

will swirl up around us 

as a few chosen 

names scroll, 

leaving us 

safe, and quite 

anonymous enough, 

as soon as we're 

recomposed, to get up

and go.

TRIVIAL PURSUIT

It used to be true 

that there was solace 

in the vacuum;

that emptiness 

which, on all sides, 

enveloped us, 

ready to crush 

us to pieces  

should we breach it,

would insulate us 

quite nicely from the pain 

of conviction 

and give credence 

to all of our panicked 

misgivings.

But blank space, 

we now think, is filled 

to the brim—not only 

with the dark matter 

of our carelessness

and enthrallment, 

but with the energy 

of our worst fears

all colliding in the dark,  

creating new shapes 

and relationships 

amongst the ruined drifting stars 

for some future 

night gazer's most 

trifling entertainment.

TRAUMA

Are we just 

the sum of our 

everyday actions, or 

is there more—by which 

I mean 

less? I mean: 

is our whole purpose 

just those behaviors 

which we repeat 

without thinking 

like automatic 

crying, or some 

nest-building instinct? Or

is it better expressed 

the other way around:

those tics, fits,

and movements 

ordained to us 

by elsewhere—

by a past whose 

unwanted touch

we all share, but which 

still is no more real to us 

than the worst shit 

on Netflix—are those 

our blessed and 

mandated missions? 

Shall they choose 

our occupations? 

Comprise our 

life's work?

HALF-EMPTY LOTUS

We've been learning how to sit 

and subdue

our own thoughts—

because we've been so-

instructed. 

But it's disconcerting 

to hear melody 

sung without lyrics—

and lonelier 

than one would care 

to admit

to be caught 

in such a glamorous close-up. 

At least when there's bickering, 

we know that 

all parties care enough—

we know that 

more than one 

distractedly fast-moving,

cool, detached 

stranger to us 

finds this hole 

where someone's head was 

too interesting 

to pass up.