OBNOXIOUS

how loud the rusted

hinges of my heart 

still creak 

with the coming 

and going 

of your trust.

TURN-ONS

When I tell you 

I need understanding 

like a drug, 

it sounds degrading. 

But 

the way you can't 

give me 

what I want 

is so hot. 

*

Which do you think 

is sexier? 

my neediness 

or

the way I pretend 

not to lie to you 

about it? 

*

In my experience...

you start to say,

because the truth 

is just not 

the party dress 

you're looking for—or 

because the truth 

is that the warm muzzle 

of authority 

pressing so 

firmly against you 

is soothing. 

NO-MAN'S LAND

It's possible that 

you and I exist 

not as 

a series of near-

infinite points, but 

more as as series 

of near 

hits and misses.

In both cases, 

some kind of

surveillance is involved—

some orienting 

spin somehow

superintends

the blind-alley waste 

of directionless space—

but in neither 

could you say 

we've mapped 

the lightning strike 

of being yet, 

even though 

we've been surveying 

all the right places.

NEW COVENANT

Maybe we 

no longer need 

to have faith; 

the resurrection 

is ongoing—it happens

incessantly. 

Everywhere you look, 

you see

younger 

and younger people

flirting and gibing 

and slanging in tongues, 

nonchalant about 

coming in late 

to replace you 

as they are 

about their inchoate 

need

to one day be 

redeemed. 

DE RIGUEUR

We are taught 

to want both 

peace and quiet, 

as if the two 

were mutually inclusive. 

But to what extent 

could the heavens be 

nonviolent 

when the light 

in which all 

consciousness subsists 

was born hence 

by bombs of such 

merciless velocity? 

It may be soundless 

in space, yes—

and weightless too, 

in some sense—but 

the most crucial

expedients

to this very thought 

were loud, hot

explosions 

none the less.

APLOMB

It's astounding 

the way all these still-

bare sycamores 

continue to bow 

and twist 

in crude wind—as if

calmly demurring

oh thanks, but 

no thank you

to winter's 

unnervingly 

cringe last-ditch overtures.

ÉLAN VITAL

It's possible that 

this whole time, we've been 

doing it wrong: 

searching for life 

as metabolites 

in the frozen oceans 

of Jupiter's moons 

when, in truth, 

it burns cleanest 

in the flame of our mistakes.

Our small losses 

accrete, and the travesty 

gains mass 

til it condenses 

and falls down

and puddles like rain 

in the sedimentary layers 

of rock-hard 

before and after. 

In fact, so rich is the vein

in the dirt 

beneath our feet 

that to say we could sort it 

and give it a name 

would defy any meaning 

or endeavor 

to explain.