HOLDING SPACE

If it’s the truth

that grief
trains strength,

and stubborn
fortitude,
endurance—

then why
don’t more of us take
out insurance

and volunteer
to stand
without lapse

in the clear dead-
center of the rooms
where we gather

and push the ceiling
up with 

both hands

while trying
as hard as we 
possibly can

to exert a down-

and-outward
pressure with the feet,

in order to make
sure the floor
stays beneath

and prevent
the walls from
probable collapse?

Not to sound
like a jerk,
but if it’s good

for our character,
manufactures worth,
and is so mission-

critical to the lasting

of this world;
then why do I appear 

to be doing

all the work—in fact, 

how come

it looks 

like I’m the only 

person in here?

EVRYTHNG IS UNDR CTRL

It’s no wonder 

a plant grows, 

but an animal ages—

why a tree is
cut down, but a person
gets slaughtered.

O, to be that
capably uncertain

instead of rehearsing 

our choirs 

of expectation.

We think we can 

control the weather

because we can open 

or shut 

the window.

We think only 

what’s broken
needs to be tended—

only what’s finished

can be loved.

We think:

once I'm done holding
this situation together,

perhaps I’ll push 

the sun down again,

pull some stunning 

flowers open,

and then, just for kicks, 

go close my fist

around some running water.

PALIMPSEST ON WILLIAMS, OR: MODERNISM FOR MILLENNIALS W/ MORE SECURE ATTACHMENT STYLES

No ideas

but in things
after 10pm.

LAST DAY

No one has said 

thank you

in a very long time.

And they all fell

in love where I wanted them
to rise.

No way they’re 

getting their 

deposits back again.

Starting over 

Monday. Even still, 

amen.

WHAT AM I?

I come upon existence ike 

a student to the stacks—eager 

to peruse, but only borrow 

from their creaking shelves.

Then I attack its distractions
like an invasive insect
and burrow into boredom’s core,
until I’m where the center’s at.

When I walk down the street,
I walk like a king—always
shining the void stars
without even trying.

And my birth must be 
pretended since it can’t
be recollected, but death
is not my enemy—no,

death is just the remedy.
For in the end, it 

cures me of the bug 

of being myself.

SO WHAT

Watching evening raindrops

colonize
the windowsill

would seem
a proper study
of the activity of god.

But if god is not
a thought,
but thinking—

is a finger
pointing the way
to reality—

then haven’t we
been here already?
In fact,

haven’t we left home
just to get back?
And whence this great

need to arrive 

at a state?

why not sit back

and watch the raindrops 

constellate? Perhaps

all this time,

we have been cheek-

to-cheek-cozy

with the mystery; so

why not take it easy—
boil water,
make tea,

and abandon our-
selves to these
lives we’ve been living?

AT GREAT PAINS

Wish you could just
take the sweets—
skip the leaves—

and eat all 

you please from life’s
dish with no upset?

Sounds screwy
to say it, but
suffering

is like gluten:
life might feel healthier
the minute you lose it,

but it quickly 

gets a lot 

less structured—and let’s 

not forget toothsome—

and textured—

and chewy.