ASKING THE ORACLE

To the gray-faced gulls 

outside my window, 

husbanded here 

by the breath of the dawn—

though my questions 

number in the millions, 

in this moment, 

I just want to know 

if you think 

every wind is distinct—

or is there, in truth, really 

only one kind 

which gets passed 

around and forward 

in space and in time?

In short, 

is it more

like the seafoam 

which drove you 

to this building, 

or the way 

we all suspect 

that there was

a first yawn—

issued-forth at the end 

of day seven by God,

and ever since then riding 

this great wave of animality 

for untold—

and as-yet-

unfolding-into

eternity—eons? 

TARGET AUDIENCE

Sometimes 

my soul talks 

down to my body;

says I know 

you think you hear 

the wind in the trees—

think you recognize 

the melody—

but you don't 

appreciate it 

like I can, 

since you don't 

understand 

what the lyrics mean.

Which is just 

as well, since, 

from the branches in the breeze, 

to the rippling 

of water and the wild 

screams of flowers—in fact, 

everything 

wafting out from 

life's orchestra pit—

though you may 

catch it, you are not 

the demographic, 

and don't you forget it

whatever you do:

the world may be here

to appear to you—but 

to me, it's here 

to sing. 

PERISH THE THOUGHT

As if I 

could do that. 

As if there were simply 

a hex I could cast. 

As if I could ever

grant myself permission 

to wrap these

tense hands around its 

incorporeal throat—

or grab 

for some ethereal, 

existential pillow 

to smother 

its monotonous mouth 

without guilt—

some divine length

of piano wire 

that wouldn't leave welts,

or some metaphysical 

potion, purpose-built 

to snuff its lights out,

leaving 

no residue 

of murderous intent

and me, though

newly-listed as sole 

inheritor of its estate,

still somehow 

bathed in the good 

graces of its family members—

in particular, its 

attractively built 

younger sister. 

{}

Empty set, I 

eye your symbols 

with inexplicable dread, 

like a pair 

of hungry rusted 

calipers on the page

or two 

of a disappointed fence's 

warped boards, 

long past brown now 

and headed more 

towards gray

as you don't so much

circumscribe as

underline what remains:

the size of a place 

when nothing there

is left, 

and there's nothing 

left to be done;

the truth

that absence 

is not the same 

as nothingness

(for absence 

is a vacancy in space—

whereas nothingness 

is the full weight 

of space 

and vacancy's absence);

and the fear that, 

after this, quite enough 

has been said.

ENLIGHTENED PESSIMISM

As the regal sun 

processed in the sky

the only way it's able

and white gold

from the window inched 

inexorably through the room—

I was the one 

true witness 

to the sight 

of the half-empty glass 

on the bright side 

of the table.

 

PLANNED OBSOLESCENCE

Bad news for 

all that time 

and effort you'd been spending:

your heart's 

no longer warrantied 

by the lyric poem's defending.

Sure, for now, 

it still works 

to its purpose, but 

let's face it—it certainly 

is no state-

of-the-art thing. 

If your body were a car, 

for instance, it wouldn't be 

the engine; 

it'd be 

the rear defroster 

or the AM/FM radio. 

If your soul 

were a home, 

it wouldn't be the kitchen, 

or even an electric 

toaster oven; 

it'd be 

the old flip phone 

which you keep 

in a drawer,

just for those 

gray-sky kind

of sentimental days 

(it may be 

a brick, you say, 

but it still contains 

a few 

of your favorite 

dead cat's old photos). 

HUNGER

Hello, 

common thief—

back again, 

I see 

to steal 

a little 

more of my 

complacency.