TWILIGHT OF THE IDOLS

          Is man merely a mistake of God's?

          Or God merely a mistake of man's?

               -Neitzsche

Some causal chains 

are so long, thought 

cannot wind them;

others, as inexorable 

as the final chord in songs.

Quirky and immortal

and mercurial 

as quarks—

as wiseacre cartoon 

rabbits, pigs, and ducks—

the first gods must have sprung 

from the volcanic 

islands of our minds

as general outlines,

suggested by the anxious 

agitation of our motions—

then grew tall

and strong on all

the sugar, fat, and salt 

of our desperate hopes 

and fevered questions, 

til at last they turned 

misshapen 

and strange,

which gradually changed 

to strange-

ly quiet—

then just dead-

silent—

then just 

dead-wrong. 

THE SHARP END OF THE SPEAR

In the end, every life

is a dull heavy shaft 

which is suddenly honed 

to a breathtaking point; 

and each, the sole bearer's 

precious own to lose, 

the splendid 

and the simple one.

Given time, good and bad 

fade to ignorance—then pity; 

after ignominy, 

after fame, 

there waits the same 

oblivion. 

MATURITY

Less of a ripening 

than a 

tipping point involved:

all that it takes 

is one 

or two more problems 

than commensurate tomorrows 

in which 

they can be solved. 

FINALLY

My name: 

one mighty 

syllable—

wind 

through arborvitae; 

say it 

softly if you will—

if you must,

you won't be 

capable. 

SUMMER SOLSTICE

In tune 

with the fanfare 

of solar noon, 

gold-fuzzed bees drift by 

confused, gassed with the scent 

of a million flowers;

and birdsongs 

are launched 

from a cache of cool rocks, 

then pitched at you 

underhand 

by the same clement wind. 

But what measure is disguised 

by glinting treasure 

troves of light? 

One day, you might 

appraise this as the longest 

of your life.

ODYSSEYS

Year after year, 

we inure, 

stay aloof; 

we insulate our ears 

from the siren 

song of future—or else,

disguise ourselves 

from ourselves 

to walk like a ghost 

through the Ithaca 

of our hearts—

which only serves,

to all we meet,

as proof of how engrossed—

how invested 

we still are—

in our most 

deceitful 

and adulterous parts. 

DEMOTION

And here 

I think I am

all alone—

think I am

the subject 

of this poem—

when a trio of round bees 

lands, keen 

but conscientiously 

to steal

from the rough

swirls of clover where I sit

those leading-man kisses, 

which go on

long enough 

to make me feel 

invisible—yet more 

than a little embarrassed. .