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. . 

CODEPENDENCE

What is faith 

but the process 

of making up shapes 

in my mouth 

as I go? 

There is no—

there is no—

no such thing as— 

a correct structure, 

I stutter; 

yet I can't 

shake the feeling 

that something 

must come next. 

* 

Not to sound 

defeatist, 

or morose—but 

I'm a completist, so 

carve it on my stone: 

Here Lies A Sucker 

For Matters Of Course. 

Reality may be 

a bad marriage, 

but I'm far too 

invested in it now 

to divorce; 

in fact, the quicker 

time passes, 

the less and less 

I even notice 

the flicker.  

WILDFLOWERS

From pasture 

to parkland, parkland 

to landfill,

from swirl of hills 

to roadside ditch,

let the nominal 

pests and invasives 

proliferate—

their odd-

numbered petals, 

their frowsy leaves

once drenched 

with the curious

blue rain of night, 

now lousy 

with inviolate light—

filthy with 

the summer wind. 

A WORKING MODEL OF EXPERIENCE

If the past is 

just a joke 

whose punchline we 

have memorized, 

and the future 

is a cruse ship 

whose tagline is 

"unsinkable," 

then the present 

must be the decimal repeating 

after all 

that we're capable 

of recording 

with our devices 

is divided 

by all that we still find 

unthinkable. 

*

If the past 

is me knowing 

what everyone was thinking, 

and the future 

is a party 

in a room I can't picture, 

then the present 

must be the one I'm in 

now: 

on the couch

unamused, surrounded 

by strangers. 

*

To wake up 

and find myself 

in the middle 

of a sentence—

it's like 

I've just come-to 

in the freefall 

of existence, 

hurtling downward 

toward an "is" 

that won't discriminate. 

What's it like 

for you?