RORSCHACH TEST

Some mornings, downtown looks 

more distant 

and half-missing—

not much to see

but two or three obelisks  

which loom 

in the haze like 

somber monuments 

created in the oblique 

likeness of their 

long-extinct builders: 

a race of giant 

men and women 

whose every grand achievement 

was quickened

by its lack 

and who must have been 

wiped off the face 

of this planet 

by the sickness 

of their own ambition 

or perhaps 

its terrible cure—an obsession 

with rest.

THE SHAPE OF THINGS

Unlike Shakespeare's art, 

in life, it was you 

who played the part 

of your own three

weird sister cheerleaders:

from the start, 

you'd seen

how this ends, 

but still egged 

yourself on—as if 

even a ruin 

could be intelligently 

designed.

*

In order to see the future, 

we dress it up 

as the past. 

In an attempt 

to hide the past, 

we stow it safely  

in the future. 

But if time 

is a smooth line 

and not discrete units, 

how do we extenuate 

the blasphemy 

of our

breathing?

*

After the shape 

of things is disclosed,

exposing their seams

is easy.

We remain suspicious 

of everything we can't see 

and afraid 

of the common coldness

of plenty

of the things we can. 

We propose 

a new astrology

to give purpose 

to the stars 

after failing to divine any 

offhand.

CLICHÉ

Yet again, an old tree branch 

has snagged and gored a 

plastic bag.

At first, 

from the ground beneath, 

you can see the two of them 

bend and thurst

and parry in the wind;

but then, 

they seem to marry 

and behave as one system—

an augmented chord  

that just hangs in the air

with no inherent urge 

to resolve, 

or the parent 

who has just captured, and now 

raises up her fretted child,

only to kiss

and forgive.

ACCESS DENIED

The very first 

game 

we learned

how to play 

with ourselves 

would have to 

have been

Peekaboo—then 

Hide-and-Go-

Seek was king—

before it full-

bloomed into 

See Something, 

Say Something. 

*

What do I like best about myself?

My inability 

to take compliments.

You might view this 

as a detriment; 

but I use it 

as a gift-

card 

(which never expires) 

kept safe 

in its wallet but 

not yet 

redeemed. 

*

It is written in the skies 

which we're so keen

to look to

and nod to each other 

and call diamond-

blue

or blood-red 

when it's 

not true:

it's hard to be understood—

even harder to 

be seen.

REMINDERS

1.

I am neither depressed 

nor anxious. 

Depression and anxiety 

merely exist.

Okay—so, I guess

thoughts are just 

having themselves now? 

2.

How is your 

apocalypse going?

In mine, the survivors 

all form a band 

because 

they understand each other 

that much 

better when they

aren't talking.

3.

Life is 

made of particles, 

the physicist says; 

while the novelist 

suggests 

it's more like a premise 

that toys 

with its audience. 

Either way, it's a process 

which has to be observed 

and once it has started,

must not be 

interrupted. 

4.

Does the light 

you can see

at the end of the tunnel 

remind you of the over- 

harsh 

delivery room glare? 

If so, that's 

perfect; there's 

no need to worry.

If this were a dream, 

there would be no 

reminders—

everything there is exactly

as it appears.

NOUMENA

It's true that

we're not willing 

to try very hard 

to see things as they really are,

devoid of their color, 

smell, taste, and texture—

that is, 

enduring 

as pure numbers 

and positions—without us.

Yet, how rigorous—

how hard 

and how long we 

are willing to practice

to perfect 

the ridiculous 

art of our own 

indifference 

to the fact.

*

Dear God, 

where's the pizazz 

in doing all this 

math in your head:

derivatives 

of ribs, 

raised to the power of 

sea and soil;

darkness 

divided by light 

(in parentheses) 

times seven?

Unless 

or until

you spread your lips 

and hold forth,

all phenomena will wither 

still deaf

to the truth,

and its magic 

will be spoiled.

BREATHWORK

Inhale

and behold: not before, 

but behind your very eyes, 

the attention 

is collapsing—

as if 

every thread 

of some fabric 

has unraveled, 

as if empty space 

has been yanked 

down a sinkhole,

a pinhole, 

an infinitesimal 

but unfathomably deep 

black hole—

inside which, 

in a lapse 

lost to time, 

all that nothingness 

gets compressed 

and compounded 

until it explodes—

slingshotting 

a new admixture 

of consciousness  

back home 

just in time to notice 

the slight tickle 

in its nose.