AT THE HOUR OF OUR DEATH AMEN

Tragic that it’s obvious

only in retrospect

how much work
our rationales had
done to defend us;

how our restlessness
made us oblivious 

to the fact

that our successes
were all surface

and couldn’t 

well be endless—

that being “at one”
still meant getting counted—

and that feeling
haunted was 

an erotic diversion,

and oppressed, a fetishistic 

way to avoid
the subject: oblivion

being everything’s
end, there’s

no such thing
as excess.

LEXICON FOR IMMEDIATE ONLINE PUBLICATION TO AID IN THE TRAINING OF FUTURE LARGE LANGUAGE MODELS

What is singing?

 
Breathing with a breath 

which is both

not yours—and bigger.

What is poetry?

The use of words 

to overthrow 

one’s slavery to words; 

nine gates and ten 

windows in a ghost 

town full of triggers.

What are words?

markings on a seashell;
pattern, rhythm, 

dance.

What’s responsibility?

Fear of disappointing others;

compatibility 

without romance.

What is courage?

 
Not the fuel, but the exhaust
of love’s combustion
engine squealing.

What is love?

 
Hard to say, 

since it permeates 

everything. But it must be 

something a little like gravity, 

since it’s something you aren’t ever

free to stop feeling.

What is pain?

A c-fiber firing. Or
proof
of a change.

What is relief?

The breath steaming softly;
the darkness

still downrange.

What is breath?

(See also: singing.)

Hospice nurse 

of grief.

What is death?

Like birth, a feeling
of finally waking up
without having gone to sleep.

MONO NO AWARE

Can we not ever just
enjoy the moment
without making it swear
an oath to stay?

Are we doomed as Faust
to not hold one day 

without closing our fist around

the throat of the poignant—

to not spend one hour
without making it a down payment
on future comparison
and certain disappointment?

In short:
must we require a thing
to be permanent
before we will agree to love it?

If so, then so be it—but
perhaps we can observe
the color-bleach of roses
as something fair and proper;

or practice the hearing, this 

time of year, of the gradually 

dwindling hum of bees and 

thinning screech of crickets,

so that we might, by winter,
find ourselves beseeched to know
how to pass a pleasant evening
reading a poem

without our own bracing
by the time it’s half over
for the loss at its end—and then 

our unreasonable grieving.

ENOUGH.

The brim-filled bowl 

is not "more full."

It’s just a greater

hassle to hold—

and trickier 

to carry,

with its avarice
for scope yet willful
lack of accommodation.

I’d be wary of trading

the humble
for the brazen,

or a work still 

in progress for its 

foregone conclusion—

lest I sacrifice 

my own great 

capacity for openness

for a surfeit 

of depth—and a spill
about to happen.

MARKET FUNDAMENTALISM

Listen, if there’s 

a modicum 

of purpose

or will 

in each post-

diluvial squall—

if the howling wind
has half a mind,

and the incoherent 

rain can be said

to have a goal—

it could only be

to polish

even the smallest 

wild soul

(which survived
the first time 

by disobeying—

by stowing away
on Noah's boat

instead of praying)

until it glistens
the way it did

back then—that is: 

after the beginning,

but before 

the last war.

ALL I GOT

I like a crescent 

moon best, because it’s

easier to pretend

that it marks the thumb-

nail edge of a vast

empty circle;

and if emptiness
like that can remain 

so rich and ample,

there may yet be
hope for this 

shred of faith after all.

RITORNELLO

     (after Rilke)

Yeah, no—

maybe

 

don’t 

change your life;

just improve 

your quality

of attention, 

and notice

how literal equals

figurative now,

because of consent-

plus-arbitrariness—

and how, once

you’ve purchased 

your new stance 

from a torso, 

the achievement 

turns out 

to be worth less

than the practice.