IT'S LIKE THIS

Feelings 

can only be said 

to exist 

in relation 

(by comparison, 

that is) to one another. 

Therefore 

we must know, 

deep down, 

what bliss is—

since 

we cannot possibly be alone 

with this. 

*

Clipped phases 

seem to wander the brain 

like children 

in a dark forest. 

Even conjunctions—

those erstwhile 

breadcrumbs—

will not successfully join 

or contrast them. 

All paths to understanding 

overgrow 

and are erased. 

Only periodically 

now do they leave their cave 

and wander in circles, 

lost.

*

Every time I feel 

a disturbance, 

I might split 

and wind up in two places, 

retaining the former 

memory of both. 

Strangers in the hereafter? 

Perhaps—but 

accomplices, 

more so. 

GENTRIFICATION

As I burn through my days, 

I think a lot 

of all the bodies 

this weathered old soul 

must have tarried

through by now—but 

(probably due 

to the tyranny 

of memory) 

somehow not 

often enough 

of the opposite: 

what battle-scarred hoards, 

all strange 

and complex, 

have tossed their lots 

in with this 

broom closet body, 

seizing it, 

razing it, 

building it up—

then selling it off 

at a loss 

or a profit? 

GEE

Day after day, 

while you focus 

on the sun—

and others, from 

the sound of it, 

on the revving 

of their engines—

those tight faces 

at the ends 

of the lilac bush branches 

remain blank 

and unresponsive 

to the chorus 

of birdsong at dusk 

and dawn

and the quickening 

green of the adjacent 

park lawn. 

But of course, 

one morning, those grimaces 

will loosen 

and redeem their cached 

sweetness 

in busts of fragrant glee—

and you'll think how, 

in the grand scheme, 

it only takes a blink 

for everything  

to happen—

but an awfully long 

and lonely time 

for anything 

to mean. 

IMAGISM

Has anything ever 

come out 

the way 

you meant it to? 

Would any bright cocktail 

of gadabout words 

go down as 

rococo

as your point 

of view?

*

Just tell them—

how the leaves 

looked black 

in the last light 

as the canopy 

and the loam beneath 

unhurriedly 

equalized.

*

At last, the night sky 

was so 

phosphorescent-bright 

with the staggering 

pollution 

of downtown lights 

that words 

had no meaning—

the rock bottom 

you were needing. 

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.