MISE-EN-SCÈNE

What if time 

wasn't time, 

but the flow of information 

from the five starving senses

to a full-

to-bursting mind? 

And space, 

the last few stage flats 

of an off-broadway production 

that has already been shut down 

which have yet to be 

rolled away?

What would that 

suggest about the cost

of doing business? 

What would that say

about the price 

of our admission

when we'd been bitter enough 

to part with it but 

willing enough to pay? 

WRITING PROMPT

Dreamt I went 

to a workshop taught

by my reflection. 

He said, in order to be a poet, 

you must ask

the right questions.

What is nostalgia? 

I cautiously invited.

All the memories, he replied, 

with none 

of the hindsight. 

What's imagination? 

I solicited next.

Some hoodoo hex; 

an atomic pile, throwing off 

art like radiation.

what is this purgatory 

where we reside?

Simply a purging 

through repetition, he sighed. 

What then, is heaven?

I stammered, losing patience.

That which lies 

all the time 

outside your vision. 

MODUS PONENS

If lies 

make baby 

Jesus cry, 

what would 

make him 

laugh—the truth?

Would shyness 

soothe? Or 

verbal abuse? 

Mirth is not 

a thing 

to cling too

tightly to, 

anyway, I think 

he'd say. Why, 

seems like just 

the other day 

his friends

ignored him 

til he cried. Then 

flattered him 

until he puked. 

And lastly

told him: if P, 

then Q; if on

our side, then 

crucified. 

THINGS TO REMEMBER

Take it from the grubby 

thirsty sparrows 

singing something 

very like A

Pirate's Life For Me

as they stake their 

claim on the fat 

gems of rain

which are caught 

in wild magenta nets 

of redbud blossoms 

that weren't so much as 

hinted at yesterday:

in the forest, 

as elsewhere, hallowed be 

consistency's name—

and yet, the proudest 

and most 

illustrious histories 

are easily

the shortest. 

LILAC

Something a little

like florets 

of bent light

suspended 

in rainwater 

and left out 

to steep for one 

long pensive night,

the odor of which 

might only be unfurling 

more and more 

slowly the mellower 

you get. 

THEODICY

The bright side is:

god's hands 

are never tied—

and his cuticles are clean

as clean can be.

But unfortunately, 

"arm's length"

just about describes 

how far apart they are—

and of course, 

those hands are you 

and me. 

FIRST EPISTLE TO THE ANTIPODES

Angel choirs 

are trifling

fictions—confections 

dressed in marzipan, 

reciting loud

flights of juvenilia; 

what's truly 

impressive is 

one good man—

that humble antithesis 

of the proud

nude emperor, 

none see him standing 

silent before 

the zealous crowd 

in all his 

invisible regalia.