JUST GUESSING

If nothing 

needed doing, what 

would I do?

Without an observer 

to despise 

or enjoy me, 

would my need to deploy one 

make me chattel 

or deity? 

For a ghost, 

there's no such thing 

as friction 

(though of course, I'm 

just guessing); 

Likewise, 

for a photon, 

no time passes 

as it wends and twists 

its way 

through the infinite 

vacuum of space. 

If what I resist most 

is just emptiness 

and void, 

how would 

not resisting it feel 

any different? 

DISCREPANCY

Some chords 

seem to naturally 

resolve themselves to others, 

while a few 

sound stranded 

no matter what you do. 

Some people you know 

are like that too; 

some words 

you send 

mean even less to them  

than their displeasure—

while others, much more 

than you intend,

trembling

like malleable bits 

of unearned treasure. 

but then—who gets to say

how much 

things mean,

or even—

what units 

should be used 

to make the measure? 

INSTINCT

Smitten 

by the heretofore 

derelict sun, 

warblers flood 

the lawn, repeating 

the only note 

they know by heart—

as if 

serving the light

by taking dictation—

as if the world's 

most transcendent art 

were to wring 

every last bit 

of tartness from it,

leaving, thereby, 

only sweetness behind. 

And perhaps, 

some canny witness 

may say 

that to act out of impulse 

can never be sublime—

that there is no transcendence 

in quotation 

of a known text. 

And all I could say 

would be that I 

agree: 

there is only 

every implication. 

SILENCE SPEAKS VOLUMES

Tuck stop full 

of chary strangers, 

not fighting 

over resources, 

not even talking— 

a little taste 

of Purgatory 

right here on Earth. 

*

Every kid  

wants to know 

where do thoughts 

come from? 

It's rare an old

ascetic wonders 

where 

do they go? 

*

If the soul 

is not of the body—

if it tenors-on 

long after 

the vehicle is dead—

must we not admit 

it just 

sits back and 

watches all this—

bored, 

reticent, 

disinterested? 

NOW AND THEN

There

at the cinched severe 

center of the hourglass—

where nothing 

is pent-up 

but all is interposed;

after thought goes 

but before feeling 

has arrived;

where one 

might well find, 

(if one were so inclined)

just one grain of time 

which is neither cached 

nor spent—

there is the best

speck of proof 

you will find—

compellingly weightless,

exquisitely benign—

of the sustenance 

many call intelligent 

design. 

THE AGNOSTIC

You would grant that 

there's a plane 

through which 

all things intersect—

it's just 

foreign as heaven 

to a deep sea fish. 

But make a wish 

and listen: does the answer 

form a question?

Is your notion of god

like a hermit crab shell—

an awkward and 

abandoned vessel?

In that case, hold it close 

and listen; you are 

bound to hear the ocean. 

MISADVENTURE

Grim scythe 

of morning by the rain-

bedeviled shore

where wet fat crows sift 

through the mist,

spearing worms

and take turns defying,

with each hoarse

craggy laugh,

the baggy nets cast 

by my best 

metaphors.