FALLING IN THE WOODS

What?

is the answer—to

a koan

no one

ever dares

to ponder.

CARTOONS

Then, I wore
huge black wrap-
around glasses

and smirked
like a yellow
thermal-

nuclear sun.
Because
that was

the biggest
rebellion
I could imagine.

*

Now,
I eat lots
of peanut butter

some mornings,
because
it's

the
simplest
one I can get my hands on.

BEGIN

Mouth shut.

Asshole tight.

Begin

to squeeze-

closed

your greedy

ravenous eyes.

See,

the way

you abuse

the sky, the sea,

the dirt, any

uncopyrighted

idea—you're basically

killing

all

the

time.

*

Then, begin

to see: no ceiling,

no stars. This is

the way things

really are.

The actual color

of the universe—

pitch dark, neither

reflective

nor generous

when it’s no longer

spangled

with those

huge silver coins—

the ones

you always used

to dream

were yours

to name, to

mine,

to explore.

Look at it

This way, though:

eyes-closed

will never be

the same as

eyeless

to begin with

was.

THE SHAPE OF THINGS

Earth

is really melting—

two degrees
Celsius by the

end of the
century. 

You don't 

understand, I can't

die. No not
me. No not yet.

* 

Proximities change.

Days wane.

Gradual faces and 

street traffic waxing—

never the same 

sorts of 

patterns 

again. And still—almost all

kids'll laugh 

at

pancakes
like Mickey Mouse.

BRIEF CANDLE

Stark in profile
on the dank blue line

train car, 

the hunched 

woman—a tormented 

figure of evening,

joylessly
nagging a huge mutant 

nectarine 

to its terrible 

ochre 

pit and shreds—

though silent

and weary

with the dribbling 

juice, nevertheless 

bids you: 

call 

and 

check

on mom.

COMPANY

I guess I joke,
and you
slightly

laugh, unconvincingly but
tilted just right
in the

fourth of
July dusk,
and it's like

all the world's a stage
still—only 

suddenly, 

there's so many competing
independent 

theater troupes,

each fervently 

rehearsing the same

show in the same

space all at once,

with an

extremely

select cast,

but with 

billions

and frisky
and shimmering
billions of understudies.

ELEGY

Peculiarly, the city 

you love

is dead already. 

Twenty-four seven,

all its streets are haunted.

Ghosts of whole neighborhoods 

(as you remember them

last time you were there) still

wriggle

you suppose—

like stanzas 

fuzzing their meaning

for each 

new observer, each 

new pair of shoes

moved

by the same 

unseen (absolute) forces. 

This time, 

It's all up 

to you

but only because it never was 

before. 

Can one side 

of one conversation

somehow

affect 

them all now? Oh

well, you tell
yourself, you
get it—this used to be called

spooky action—
at 

every 

proximity.