I DARE YOU TO

say 

at what distance 

objects begin 

to flatten 

and thin 

and collapse 

into images.

And where 

(in the wings,

the apron,

the proscenium?) 

is this sort of thing 

keen 

to insist

upon happening? 

*

tell me 

you're clever 

without being 

clever,

or pathetic 

without sounding 

rude,

or human 

without coming off 

ruthlessly savage, 

marbled 

with decadent flecks 

of absurd. 

*

Everyone's heard—

a picture 

is worth a thousand words. 

But 

just you try 

writing down 

or explaining 

to them afterwards 

exactly which ones 

those were. 

TRAGEDY OF THE COMMONS

As a tree is pure 

conflation 

of the earth 

with its atmosphere, 

what are we 

doing here? 

Drawing breaths 

for our "selves" 

with the pencil-

thin siphon 

of self-interest 

(an indelible 

theft) from the well 

of all being.

DECIDOPHOBIA

A mighty fortress 

is our 

precomtemplation phase.

It's our 

prayer 

and our privilege 

not 

to comprehend this.

*

Picture the interminable

sea of electrons 

all tugging 

like tethered cubs 

at their  

lackadaisical nuclei.  

Who the hell are you 

and I  

to feel at ease 

with anything? 

*

On the other hand—

*

Meanwhile, somewhere 

above the north Atlantic, 

a majestic 

arc of terns 

swoops and takes its 

morning dip 

without ever once 

resolving itself 

into a file of distinct 

individuals. 

EITHER WAY

I know it's
cliché, but

really:

the spaces 

are for all 

the things 

I'm not saying. 

Look, I'm not 

making 

excuses; 

even music 

uses silence—

or is it 

silence that uses 

music 

to both 

introduce and 

excuse itself? 

Either way, 

it's plain 

(and also 

elaborate—

are you 

starting to 

get it?) 

that nothing 

you could explain 

exists 

solely at its 

own discretion. 

ALMOST SUMMER POEM

Cradled 

by the shade 

of a softly 

weeping crab apple, 

starlings 

bathing in the blossom-

spattered puddle—

stowaways, 

perhaps,

from some ancient 

sylvan past—

or else, 

augurs 

sent back (by 

ourselves?)

as a promise: 

the best is still

ahead of us. 

WHY I WRITE, MK. III

It's not to speak 

my mind 

at all, 

but rather

to climb 

inside the language 

like a power suit, 

like chainmail—

to feel huge 

and yet invisible, 

buoyantly quixotic 

in a world 

full of windmills—

to feel utterly protected, 

secure in my belief 

in the feats 

of which it's capable—

and yet still, 

when I get 

near an ending,

to flail;

to panic, then 

go limp;

to let go 

and admit 

I don't know shit—

and

even if I did, 

I surely 

haven't said it. 

R0

Something new is going around. 

It's been said 

(and now, so much

repeated) 

that the birds 

or insects started it.

Incongruous, 

unwelcome—

it doesn't care; 

it hops the line and 

pops up everywhere.

Tough luck, they say; 

no escape 

form this zombie. 

The best you can 

do is climb 

willingly inside it, 

surrender your head, 

fill your mouth 

with its replicants: 

"What's new?"

"How are you?" 

None can withstand it. 

And it's far too late 

to stop it (if you're 

reading this,

that's obvious). 

In all manners 

of speaking, the virus 

of utterance

 

has spread across the planet.