THAT'LL BE THE DAY

Often we’re alone 

as in: "loneliness" 

or "lack,"

but almost never 

as in: "present-moment 

undivided wholeness."

The best we can do is 

hope it's loss's end goal

for us to be at-one with 

our bereavements—and 

that perhaps the last stop 

at the end of life's track

is to finally find oneself 

alone for the first time

after all those penultimate 

matters and facts—

alone in the original 

tongue as she was spoken—

alone as in: “unified”—

Alone as in: “all one.” 

Now that would not be 

all that bad

of a lone

achievement, would it?

IN A STATION OF THE CTA BLUE LINE

The ghost-pale glow
of these downcast scowls:

less deranged jellyfish 

floating in the dark

than carrier hosts 

for cell phones—or

bereft scarecrows—

copy-pasted, hoisted here, 

arranged in ranks, 

and left to haunt this plowed-

under row 

of the metaverse.

SIMPLICITISM

Like an untended spruce 

tree, our impulse is to grow
not only up—but in 

every direction at once.

But though it sounds
romantic, rarely is expansion
so unchecked and uncharted
the best way to go, since

boughs and needles which
explode out at random 

can quickly exhaust 

the roots’ limited nutrition 

and block light from 

the trunk—which of course

is the soul of us. Oh yes, 

it’s a shame to lose so much

of what we’ve already started,
but cultivation is a must;
so prune kindly
with the shears of “why?”

or ruthless with the chainsaw
of “no” if you’d rather. Either 

way, the goal is to find 

what was already here, for

when it comes to enough,
it can’t be reached or acquired—
it can only be realized 

once it’s been uncovered.

EXPECTATION

Born blind,

still it rises

and comes for us
automatically.

A spike
in adrenaline;

a knock at
the door.

It’s like
in a zombie movie—

all we
can think is:

it’s “after" me—
so panicked,

we forget
to check “before.”

PREQUEL

Before we
are born, our minds
must create themselves

by spinning and turning
like electrons
around a nucleus—

until, shorn
of all those
repetitive stresses

which conferred
upon them properties
like negativity and mass,

they may just 

sail off

into certainty’s darkness—

or else (if
we’re lucky), decay
in their orbits

and plummet toward 

our bodies’ brave new 

wilderness of guesses.

USER ERROR

How often 

life’s significance

feels like milk 

spilled 

from a faulty cup

for which there never
are enough

extra-absorbent
words to soak up.

But first:

why not instead figure 

meaning as container

and minutia’s 

profusion as its 

volumetric contents?

And second: it’s likely
your mistake, no matter 

which one you 

choose to construe 

as being lost,

if you confuse 

its carrier vessel’s user-

friendliness—or lack 

thereof—

with purpose. 

DEATH OF THE LYRIC

Two backlit grackles
perched on a windowsill

are accosted 
by a third before

exploding into early night.

For something so
uncrackable, the code

is awfully 

simple, right?

On a cosmological scale,

everything shines bright
for a minute—

then it doesn’t. So, 

what use

are these little

candle wicks and 

flimsy matchsticks?

How involute a tale
can an epigraph tell

when transmuted to 

an epitaph somewhere 

in the middle?