LODESTAR

More and more often 

the older we get,

the cells in our bodies

have one track minds—

now if only you and I 

could knuckle-down 

on our lodestar, 

could home-in 

and synchronize 

our efforts like that.

It's hard to deny 

the passion and gravity 

synthesized by a little 

blind automaticity, 

or the power unbound

by a secret alliance.

For however small 

and inconsequential, 

however soft 

and quick the Judas kiss, 

when it's multiplied 

by the number  

of accused men found innocent, 

then divided 

by a lifetime, 

the figure that results 

falls nothing short 

of astounding. 

ACCEPTANCE

If ever you dare 

to look 

more closely,

you'll likely see 

that, yes, 

hope floats—

but only 

on its own notion. 

Step to the edge 

of the stern 

and peer over, 

and you're liable 

to notice—

it's nothing 

but identical 

hope boats receding,

little by little,

as the distance grows 

beneath you

all the way down 

to directionless

infinity.

UNDESCRIBED

Funny: at the beginning, 

we think 

we can 

know things—

but looking back,

all really learned were 

their names

and their 

uses

and the differences 

between them.

*

When my life's work

is done

 

and I cannot finish 

another thought, 

perhaps I'll come back 

as a soft-

ticking wristwatch.

Imagine—all of time 

talking through me 

as I advance my way 

through its 

limitless music:

an incorruptible sentinel, 

perpetually standing 

between you 

and the very next 

thing you have to do. 

*

Okay. So maybe 

the whole thing was

a lie;

after we die, we don't 

really 

rise up—

but if we're lucky, 

we might 

atomize 

and fly

into 

undescribed others.

PALLIATIVE

Without question, 

it's a relief 

to close your eyes 

and just see nothing—

briefly, to blockade the lies 

and tragedies 

and griefs.

But after a while, 

does that blackness 

not turn cancerous—

does the heightened bliss 

of ignorance 

not prolapse 

into a hell? 

And after too long,

have you noticed 

the extent to which 

to suddenly unlid them 

and see plainly all

the faults in men—

to penetrate deep 

into their misfortunes

 

and greet those familiar 

demons again—

provides the most sanctified 

kind of salvation 

your wavering 

soul is yet likely 

to find?

ONE GREAT GOAL

If we lived our whole lives 

in a lag 

in time—how 

would we even know

the difference? 

Perhaps, for us, each 

passing moment 

consists 

of one more primordial 

star in the cosmos 

which has long-since 

given up its ghost 

and exploded; 

perhaps that apex 

toward which we stride—

our one great goal—

has long-since 

gone critical 

but has yet, in our eyes, 

to smolder 

and fade;

perhaps, all along, 

heaven could've been 

the set 

of some garish, lascivious 

70s gameshow:

every chintzy bulb 

could have blown

in its socket 

decades ago—

but 

from our point of view, 

it still looks as though 

it's been ages 

and ages since the slightest 

thing has changed.

COUNTERFEIT

Some say—

in words as consistent 

and natural 

as rain—

the best defense

is to let ourselves get 

used to this;

they wonder innocently to themselves 

out-loud 

in front of cameras 

just how catastrophic

the ordinary could be; 

but most important, 

when they speak, 

they speak softly 

and repeat themselves 

often, 

in a sturdy yet moving 

counterfeit 

of poetry, 

in order to soak up 

the silence which has broken out

and dilute 

the genuine virulence 

of our doubt.

AMOR FATI

It's as if, even in the hands 

of the strictest 

non-believers, 

the days of the calendar 

are transformed

into a rosary—

how we allow 

each worn bead 

to slide through our fingers

in hopeless devotion

to sequence alone—

as, day after day, we repeat 

the same 

high-flown 

yet penitent sentences

in the same sober rooms—

in their same 

sacred orders.