COMING TO TERMS

Once-noble savages 

with their hands 

on the monolith 

are now become, not death,

but hapless 

fish 

who got snagged 

in six-pack holders—

who found their fins tangled 

in a flimflam of options, 

or got strangled 

by the disembodied 

washing-hands of explication.

Great inviolate nets 

of cause and effect 

trawled through oceans 

of perspective, seaching 

for the bottom—

but such a glut 

of explanations

was less of a cure 

than a clue 

to what was missing 

and filled precious 

little of that trench 

in the truth; 

now, none are left

to acknowledge 

that depth 

is just height as seen 

from another point of view.

DRUTHERS

In this fairy tale, 

everyone dreams,

not of riches, but 

of becoming 

a meme.

Don't think

wishing stars,

think bondage constellations.

All the children 

"vibe so hard" 

with Rumpelstiltskin's 

POV. 

*

Everyone 

wants to make 

something out of nothing. 

Some would go 

so far as to say 

that truth 

is a parasite 

on beauty; 

if they had their way, 

some would say 

that rhetoric  

is not opposite, 

but prerequisite 

to plague—

that intercourse 

is poison; 

good faith, contagion's 

larval stage. 

GOD EXPLAINS THE JOKE

To the extent 

that it "existed,"

all poetic language 

was a farce 

of your mistaken 

sense of mastery 

over feeling. Sometimes, 

yes, your thoughts 

were scalding-

hot water,

and some pleasingly 

strict little poem 

was the pot;

but were you 

not so taken

with the aptness 

of that metaphor, 

you might have finally 

thought to address 

the question 

of the burner.

IN FOR A PENNY

None of us 

actually asked 

to be born. 

Not the scorn 

or the stress; 

not the laughter 

or the sex 

(however respectively 

uproarious and fabulous); 

not to know hunger 

or the comforting tug 

of fabric on skin, 

or the dizzy 

oblivion after 

spinning pirouettes. 

All that we requested 

was to know 

how it felt 

to draw breath just once 

and to speak—

or, to wit: 

to peek out 

from these shells and 

proclaim our strange dreams. 

But in our vim 

to strike a bargain,

it seems we forgot 

to stipulate that anyone 

should be there

to listen;

and little did we know

how often 

we’d find the need 

to keep on repeating

ourselves, over 

and over again. 

ARTIST'S MOTTO

"In artifice, 

verisimilitude." But 

vice versa? Never. 

To know

is one thing; it's another 

to know better. 

Our lies pollute, 

sure, but all lies 

contain truth,

and somehow 

or other, that truth 

stays pure.

THE SWEET SPOT

Before we forget 

what a relief 

it can be 

to subsist 

at the mercy 

of benevolent despots, 

let us recall 

how kind 

it is of light 

to strike 

a blue glass 

bottle from behind 

and, instead of rushing 

through, to luxuriate 

inside it

and make it appear 

so auspiciously 

illuminated; 

and while we're at it, 

how kind of our 

tyrannical minds 

to insist 

that we be 

captivated—

to concoct 

out of infinite 

bolts of whole cloth 

the gonzo 

conceit of some 

Goldilocks plot

in which 

anything at all's 

just right. 

COUNTDOWN

So spare now, day 

runs ever faster 

into day, 

as if being chased 

by the skeletal thing 

that waits 

at the end of the calendar—

not the birth 

of a savior 

or hard deadline 

imposed by the manic 

boss of elves;

not even 

a rough beast 

from the savagest hell 

who's time shall 

come around again at last 

at the zero hour—

just the endless 

night of unfeeling winter, 

creeping towards our windows

like the undead from the grave, 

coming to invade us 

like the same old blunt 

intrusive thought—or worse

yet, leave us 

to ourselves.