Exactly This

Walking past piles 

of stale, old-news snow,

everything seems exact this morning.

Sharp-angled buildings, 

composed of so-many back-lit bricks,

quake in Fahrenheit temperatures,

while precisely three rumpled finches 

swoop in Euclidean circles, as if to advertise 

the depth of mild morning air.

Then, 

far-off, 

and measured, 

and dark,

an iron bell clangs

a calculated reminder-

I, and those birds,

and those dark bricks,

and even that stale snow;

we aren't exactly news and weather;

not exactly lines or measures,

but all exactly this together:

here and hungry

for today's soft light.

Breakfast Emptied Out

I thought I left

for work this morning

in one piece, but empty.

Ignoring hot hunger,

I just barreled on

through fog, past rust and wet rot.

But along the way,

the empty feeling 

had whole ideas of its own-

it turned itself

completely inside-out,

and spilled out all around me.

Suddenly, 

in sweat, I felt

that I was every car in traffic.

Salt and warm wet

eroded any former

thoughts I had of progress

as wills and cars all sloshed apart, 

evaporated, and just forgot  

what vapors ever formerly dreamed of hunger.

*** 

Sometime later, 

near some intended destination,

rain fell, indiscriminate and cold.

All it did was help things shine-

it was easy,

and things felt fine.

Haiku no.9 w/ Caps Lock

I'M JUST SO BATSHIT

ZEN THAT I GAVE UP 

ON ALL THE SANSKRIT

In so far as I can talk about it (which isn't nearly as far as I can walk)

lost in familiar 

woods

no thought found 

me

only a distant warble

then 

a nearer caw-

all of space and time

momentarily defined.

without effort

or explanation

Too Many Adjectives

The real trouble with snow

isn't the shoveling,

or the cold,

or even the grungy slop of roads.

It's that there's just too many adjectives in it

and not nearly enough nothing to behold.

When I see it boldly 

clung to boughs,

it makes me think:

Oh, white! 

Oh, wow!

Oh, soft! And oh, majestic! And oh, 

how ecumenically bestowed!

But all these words were used before,

the currency of countless packs 

of hokey Roberts Frost,

and each betrays the untrue gap

between what winter's really worth 

and what it seems to cost.

I've read that 

what I see is it;

the snow just signifies itself,

and I shouldn't take in any words

than I can't quickly spit.

But somehow I can't nip the feeling

that snow's cold beauty betrays meaning,

and I just can't stop salivating

to describe it all precipitating.

In a hurry, Frost called his woods "lovely,"

and then just "dark," and then just "deep."

Well, so are mine, apparently;

only I've got nowhere else to be.

Nihil Ad Rem

There's snow

all over my poem

this morning—

I can hardly read the words—

I think

they were keen

and tactful and taut

and their logic cut clean

with quick heat—but now

just rows of sloppy

trees

columns of idle

cars

distant indiscriminate

architecture

awash in

faceless white—

what once stood,

perfectly

good—now just

perfect.

By March

Winter 

is a lame duck

squatting,

and I'm a motivated stalker.

Pained and narrowed

by responsibilities,

I just have to snatch

and bust 

and fry 

and wolf

her motley eggs for breakfast

with too much 

fresh green thyme.