PHILIA

Shoot straight, 

god:

were we made to feel 

responsible 

for one another 

no matter what—

or not? 

You'd think 

that a grammar 

of love

would be simple;

would flow 

with the changes, 

as it does

in the hymnals—

but intuitions 

and affections flicker 

like the red walls 

of vestibules 

packed with votive candles.

 

All of which is to say 

that, focused 

as we are 

by a little sanctity  

and ritual, 

the picture's 

not okay; 

we're still getting 

mixed signals.

THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS

Scarcity 

may be our most 

archetypal fear—

but it's also the most 

groundless, since 

there's so much more here 

than our fiercest 

combatants could hope 

to defend. For example,

hands are so numerous, 

there is always one 

to lend—

and time 

is so ample that it never 

quite advances. 

And the blue sky 

blushes out so wide that, 

what could be the chances 

that you ever would 

run out of vintage 

sermons to mistrust 

from the glut of ancient 

gods who still must 

float and make their homes there,

their vengeance 

too great to be blighted 

by death, yet

so infinite-

ly diffuse, it just feels

pleasant now instead?

A POSTERIORI

        After James Wright

You might think, 

one day,

in passive time 

with the rhythm 

of a hammock swinging—

as you blink 

away the dispassionate 

sky 

and feel the raggedy  

tops of tall grass blades 

tickle the dangling

tips of your fingers—

the great poet 

was right: I have wasted 

my life. And yet,

standing between

a real feeling 

and the truth 

is the fact that 

you never decided 

or chose to.

And who knows—

that skinny divergence, 

that small act 

of defiance 

might alter the future 

as well as 

the past—

as you oscillate 

there in the breeze 

killing time—

from deep 

in the center of your story 

on out,

one bleary vowel, 

one rough syllable 

at a time.

END OF THE MOVIE

I used to imagine—not 

unlike most—

that the gig was 

to simply keep 

playing our roles; 

we were heroic, 

dynamic characters 

whose roads through 

hard times led to 

changes for the better.

But now, the whole plot 

has gone on for so long 

that I've come 

to suspect that our job 

is much stranger 

and less glamorous 

than that. In fact, 

we're now working 

in those black times 

after the show,

swimming through oceans 

of slow-scrolling credits, 

and trying to determine 

for something 

like "certain" 

which strange collection 

of symbols we were. 

And meanwhile, 

our customers—an emotion-

purged audience—

grow restless and mumble  

their disparate ideas

concerning 

when it's appropriate 

to get up and go.

PARLOR TRICK

Here's how I want you to think 

of things now: 

your job is

to fold and tear 

all your old 

strategies for coping 

along their suddenly-

obvious perforations.

You'll notice 

in doing so

that beliefs, feelings 

and sympathies 

are no longer things 

but processes; that is 

to say: modular affectations.

For instance, 

even your nascent-

ly blooming intention 

to follow these 

directions 

was much less 

a thought 

than a 

realization.

SURPLUS TO REQUIREMENTS

What on Earth 

did we think we

would do with 

all these vestigial 

memories? 

With so many 

leftover 

disabused-of thoughts 

and jealously hoarded

obsolete feelings 

still stacked

to the rafters in 

cordoned off spaces, 

it's a wonder we 

have room 

to breathe—let alone 

face the prospect 

of cleaning up 

or leaving.

Besides, in the shape 

they're in, 

how could we escape—

I mean,

how could we 

ever hope to

sell these old places 

and move to a newer, 

cleaner state 

of being—especially 

knowing, in our 

moth-eaten hearts,

that it wouldn't take long 

to cram a new one 

with bygones

and antique 

emotions from floor 

to ceiling?

PORTABLE MODEL OF THE IMAGINATION

In the maze 

of the mind, unlocked 

doors lead 

to questions—

some of which tend 

to dead-end 

at problems—problems 

which the burly

charioteer, 

possibly in-league 

with his clever friend 

the engineer, 

work to a fever 

pitch of effort 

to resolve—til the poet,

ever floating 

in that bath which fills 

synaptic gaps,

chances 

to stir from his open-

ended nap 

 

to spill a few non 

sequiturs, which 

dissolves them.