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.

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.