DEUS EX MACHINA

The Terminator 

who learned to cry 

was right:

the best anti-virus 

protection from 

sadness is 

pattern recognition—

this 

is like that; 

stolidity 

like blankness; 

detachment, right 

next door 

to madness. 

*

Wherefore this need 

to triangulate 

emotion? 

Our first response 

to the threat 

of overbalance is 

not 

to respond—

but to find someone 

to show. 

*

Note to future-self: 

when you finally 

rub up against 

the Great Artifice, 

be sure to save 

the last of those three wishes 

for meta-

significance. 

THE PLOT

First, you learn 

that you 

are someone—

front 

and center, bright 

eyes shining; 

then, you learn that you 

are not—you run 

together, wander off; 

last, you learn 

it was never 

about you—all depth 

collapses, 

and the plot 

strands clot; 

the divinely un-

divided scoffs 

at what went rhyming

with "auspicious"

in the sticks—those 

trite seconds 

and gauche minutes—

the conceit 

was just a matter, 

not 

of time, but 

of timing. 

SECOND PLACE

Heaven is distinguished 

from psychosis

by its paleness. Whereas 

even the bleakest, 

snow-blank 

day in February 

is all shot through 

with stinging 

vivid filaments of memory 

and the richness of the longing 

for the sideways 

glance of spring—

the end of the show, 

where the ache 

is extinguished 

is a blank soundstage, 

stripped of its old 

garish game show sets

and backlit 

by the weakest dangling 

strands of winking bulbs—

as if the antidote to depression 

and anxiety was 

a kind of blindness; 

as if the runner-

up prize, 

so long denied, 

was an end to irritation 

and negation of striving; 

as if going nowhere 

and doing nothing 

were the grand culmination 

of yearning for something.  

DAN SMART POEM

A set of instructions 

for decoding instructions; 

identical rhyme 

to give surfeit 

some zing. 

Mobile-home stanzas 

in trailer-park columns;

contrition 

as antidote to hubris 

and shame. 

Of course: rhythm 

as instrument, 

not the song 

that it's singing; 

as longing 

without referent;

as syntax, not diction.

And last: the tragedy 

of slant rhyme 

to overgraze

pure rhyme's commons, 

to contain 

the seeds of its 

own destruction 

while retaining 

some plausible 

deniability of same. 

STAINED GLASS

Clean cry of the newborn

like a crack 

in the face, 

fracturing pure lightness 

into arches, transoms, colonnades—

into limitless 

fragile burnished 

matrices of porches,

all winking 

in midair their 

ambiguous understanding 

of absentia-

cum-grace. 

ROAD TO RUIN

Is it any 

wonder that 

things fall apart

when, simply 

by reacting, we deconstruct 

the past—or worse 

yet: simply by thinking, 

we kick 

the future's ass? 

Picture layer 

upon layer 

of anger, guilt, resentment 

laid down like shellac, like 

goose grease, 

like black ice

to slicken the surface—but 

on the fence-less precipice 

of what? 

Is it any wonder 

the mind's terrain is 

so precarious? 

To get out of our head 

is hazardous 

enough, but 

it's twice 

as far—twice as dangerous 

to get back. 

PHILOSOPHICAL ZOMBIES

Tell the truth and 

shame the devil: 

"let me just get my 

thoughts in order" 

means 

privileging one 

above all others. 

*

Can you pick out 

the savior 

on the cross 

from the other two actors, 

hired to re-enact 

our anger? 

"Will the real necromancer 

please stand up 

and roll away 

the stone, 

then come 

for our brains?!" 

*

We "weren't there" 

in scare quotes

sounds so benign,

sounds close enough 

for jazz—

close as 

innocence

and indifference, 

which

don't strictly 

rhyme—but 

kind of?