WHAT AM I?

I come upon the ego like 

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.

FAUSTIAN PACT

The sublime needs 

the superficial

as the angel 

breeds the animal—

as gentleness and force 

will combine

over time to commit

what violence never could.

But what’s this earthly 

crucible coming to 

when—unlike the good,

and unlike

the true—god
and the devil would

both sell you
the beautiful?

OUTFOXED

We think: 

what is all that
mountain for

if not to support
the peak? 

But o,

the shrewdness
of the humble 

old sea

to always lie
lower than its young

impulsive streams—

for have we not seen
where they all
end up? Almost
 
like life 

springs its own

crafty traps—

like one must bend
down to get
deep.

UNCONTRIVED

          Lord, make me an instrument 

          of your peace: where there is 

          hated, let me sow love.

               —Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi


I'd settle for less

than to be made into 

an instrument,

a vessel 

in training, or even 

a cane rejected.

Premium substance

is much too 

contentious; make me

cruder 

than a weapon—

genuine as plain wood.

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It's true that there’s meaning 

in effort, I guess—

but I wonder

 
if there’s just as much
in our efforts
to erase?

 
For it sure seems to take
a revolutionary act—
not to mention

 
all the strength
of Hercules at his labors—
to push back 

day after day
against the incessant wind 

of competition;

to hit backspace
on the runaway 

sentence of our chatter

and slim down each
column inch of schadenfreude 

and envy;

to rake, before we 

turn out the light, the ripples 

of history and obligation

from the ocean
of sand that we keep
on our nightstand

in a glass box

to remind us of the only 

work that matters.