LE SACRE DU PRINTEMPS

In lieu of hugs 

and platonic kisses, 

we are succored 

now by noises 

which ripple the horizons—

the contrails 

of car radios smearing 

lively streets;

starlings who needle 

the blithe air 

with whistles;

and the laughing-screams 

leaking from the edges 

of playgrounds. 

And though deeply at peace 

and in love 

with the sounds, 

we maintain 

a light dispassion,

and we know 

this isn't heaven 

by the way we aren't 

fatigued as yet with 

all the repetition. 

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

I like to think 

I write things down 

so that others can see 

they're not alone 

in this mission, 

but truth 

be told, I use poems 

like friction—

to slow 

my roving mind 

with the scrape 

of repetition 

and to run interference 

on my snowy disposition 

with the heat 

from my body's conflicting 

experience.

MARCH CARDINAL

Child of the wind, 

blown in fresh 

from Elysium, 

his fresh scar of red 

against the monochrome wreck 

is a real piece 

of cake for the hiker's 

eye to track, but 

to find himself here 

at the end of winter's dreck

might be dumb 

luck because he's 

just as shocked as you are.

ABRACADABRA

In the clogged wings

offstage, 

limitless prototypes 

wait (since eternity) 

for just the right climax 

or inciting incident 

to flood and ply

the arch 

for all 

of half a minute. 

*

Every Earth-second 

yields 4.5 infants—

and yet, 

in physics, it's professed 

that the instant 

two bits hit each other 

all of their mystery 

is forthwith 

annihilated. 

* 

From their seats 

in the house, 

the audience 

bears witness 

to undying iterations 

of 1s and 0s 

piling as 

long cords, 

into fantastic shapes 

never seen before—

but that doesn't stop them 

from leaning to whisper 

their trite explanations 

of the metaphor. 

THE SCIENTIST

Something has always 

piqued my interest 

about single-

serve recipes, 

drying racks 

which house 

just one dish, 

and austere 

wooden tables 

with a solitary chair. 

How much less 

can one man stand?—

I shall know 

when I get there.

That endgame, 

perhaps, is a 

mortal stress, so 

it's a good thing 

I was built for this

and am dying to test 

just how 

much violence 

bachelorhood will bear. 

BY COMPARISON

Everything that's coming 

had to come from 

something 

that itself was once 

very close 

to nothing. 

What would it be like 

to be that first thing—

parentless 

and humble, 

uncalled 

by another, and yet 

suddenly all 

at once, there 

to discover 

the nuts 

and bolts of loving, 

the long and short 

of leaving?

*

Ashes to ashes,

dust to dust, 

and in between, 

oneness (read: 

aloneness) 

with experience. 

*

It's good, now

that things are beginning 

to stir all around me—

shadows 

of dull bulbs, flickers 

of birds' wings—

that way, I don't 

have to be 

the one to sing;

I can be silent 

and still 

more profoundly.  

JUST THE THING

In a less 

auspicious turn, 

I'm the Flesh 

made Word—

because I'm always attempting 

to be just the thing 

to spurn the unconscious 

and burst forth 

from your mouth—

because I long to degrade 

on the waves 

of midair ringing 

til I land like a seed 

in the mind 

of you interlocutor 

and bloom into 

the sweetness of a greater 

understanding—

because I was built

to live forever, 

but I cannot bear the wait, 

and on a page, I can't stop 

leading, always leaning 

towards an answer—

and lastly, because 

I am never content 

to just be myself; 

I always 

have to mean 

something else,

whether or not 

I can mean something  

great.