PLAUSIBLE EXPLANATION FOR GOOSEBUMPS

All day, every
day—little by little, so you
barely notice,

unqestioningly,
the real world
rushes up

to coddle you.
Without asking,
It quietly numbs

and gently sucks
and melts away—
but with such

deference
and so cloyingly!—
impoverishing

the grand
but astringent purity
of acute possibility

with its bland and edgeless
little packages
of actuality;

each,
like one
of so many

obtuse ice cubes floating,
shimmering,
slowly

diluting
your morning
coffee.

WE ARE REALITY

Staring hard at the cerulean sea,
you think

of how—
there must be so much going on underneath

these toppling wavecrests that you'll never see! 

So many colors 

which have no

allegiance whatever to blue, wild untamable 

flavors, brainless 

molecules, meticulously-wound strings

of pure protein; textures, smells, sensations 

all vibrating 

at temperatures 

much different than the one that your quivering 

skin is feeling. 

And so many creatures! Beautiful, benign, malevolent;

all combating, or else cooperating—all in unique 

patterns, every

second, combining 

and canceling as they move toward the 

surface 

to create these scant few impressions you're receiving.

So tell me the truth, how 

on earth

can it be? 

that—when gazing just as 

deeply into that smart little

silvery rectangle 

back

home in your bathroom—

that's never, 

ever what you think?

FUNHOUSE

God 

damn these

evil little twists—and this 

great

distance between 

us—

it's 

all done—

with mirrors.

HAUNTED MANSION

Staying here—
you're so

scared, 

you're shot

and going
insane

with the thought—
that the very

next moment

might contain something
that this one
does not.

Leaving
this spot—you're
afraid

you might
end up

happy—but
for no reason.

HOROSCOPE

I can see 

for ages—nothing much 

will happen. 

Rain later, but for now—

that minor 

threat, whispering on a doleful 

breeze, 

merely bears

an orange-

glazed morning bird—

flitting amid the

paisley 

design of flowers—

deliberate

and frisky 

as a dart—as unburdened 

by the resplendent 

weight of this light 

that's slowly

but surely fermenting

as he is by his 

own little 

mania 

for making 

the most 

of every last 

wedge of incandescent 

day.

RECOVERY

The second night

I see Mars 

up there,

I don't care

nearly as much

as the first―because

the very
strict feeling
of twenty-

four hours
passing
convinces me

that—lonely
and frozen
and ruddy with

fierce
secrets—this

is the only

world
that there
is.

NO IMAGINATION

You think—nothing
ever happens;

you're literally sitting around waiting
for water

to boil.
Then,

suddenly—
out of

nowhere,
the whole kettle
just erupts,

and you wonder—
how come

everything always
happens
all at once?