GOSPEL

Dry cool whisper 

of the breeze 

through the leaves, 

how I wish 

I could discern 

what you're saying; 

how I wish we could 

converse 

so that I might ask

in a low, wordless moan 

of my own

where it is 

you come from. 

Is it where some think—

from the far edge 

of the planet? 

Or across space 

from the waving 

of ancient stars, 

or the windmill 

of distantly

spiraling galaxies?

More likely, I suspect 

it's from the ghosts 

of all my future selves 

passing through me

right this second,

like the wind—that is: 

oblivious;

not howling 

for my attention;

not trying to teach 

or warn me of anything

because silence to them 

is more than repetition—

it's the god's

honest truth—or 

what I might call

non-fiction. 

THE LONG HAUL

          Yet man is born unto trouble, 

          as the sparks fly upward.

               -Job 5:7
 

Yes, it's true; 

when all is said and done, 

there are going to be days 

when every 

swallow of coffee 

is hollow—

when none of the books 

on your shelf 

want to talk to you

while your pen 

strains to ask 

with its recondite scratches

if an indoor place exists

that wasn't made 

to hold-in grief,

or an outdoor place 

that that doesn't breed 

loneliness and sorrow.

In brief, there'll be days 

when taking 

feels like giving;

when, for all you know, it's 

your shadow 

casting you. But, 

since who the hell are you

to tell the difference 

between the two—

let lone the difference 

between someday 

and tomorrow—

you must bow down 

to the catch-all called 

the long haul; 

you must resign it all

and just call this

living. 

DOMINION

A long time ago, 

we used to be 

suspicious, 

but now 

we stand in awe 

of abject predictability; 

instead of living 

in ecstatic terror 

of god's everlasting arms, 

we now worship 

their compliance 

and fantastic portability.

In fact, if he 

were still 

alive today, 

he'd mostly 

be shocked

and hurt by the way 

in which knowledge is 

crushed-up to pave 

the roads to power—

by the way our GPS 

now briskly 

redirects us 

around temple wrecks 

and flaming 

sword blockages, 

all while keeping us

abreast of our most 

current ETA—

but mostly, 

by the way in which

a single earthly moment 

is no longer suffered 

by its bearer 

or endured—

or even simply 

received 

or sustained—

but rather, is abjectly 

captured, 

then explained. 

SO THERE

Even the almighty 

river doesn't know 

how it is I manage 

to piss standing up. 

LATE AUGUST

A parched wind 

limps by—

stiff and cautious, 

yet unsteady 

as our exhaled breaths.

How did we

get here? None 

can guess;

the weeks have passed 

so fast—still

each day feels

like twenty years. 

NEVERTHELESS

Every day, once a day,
I get the urge 

to do the impossible:

to save what must leave,

to give weight to words

(though I make no claim

to understand
what they name)

and a hope-like shape
to tumultuous thought.

Is it reckless? Is it vein?
I ought to say 

I don’t care.

But if you think about it,
the very fact
that this poem appears here,

lying patient as a snare
in the middle of this page

(or this screen, or wherever)—

and eager to catch
that which must pass away

already betrays
that I do anyway.

deny it as I might,

the urge to write—

the compulsion
to tell someone

has somehow caught me
unaware that I’m sure

there's no such thing

as an art
of despair.

MORTALITY

A cheap store-bought wind chime

(though no less

hungry for the breeze);

its many small lapping tongues

of bell bronze

or bell brass—

or hell, I 

don’t know, of prefab

fiberglass, perhaps—

making me forget 

as I pass underneath

what silence sounds like—

then remember (however 

temporarily)

what it means.