FUCK IT

It's dangerous, they say, 

to paint with 

too broad a brush, but 

you know what? Sometimes 

you're in a rush. 

Plus, the predicament 

you're in couldn't be 

more legitimate: the crew 

is on a break 

which is starting to look 

more like a 

permanent hiatus—

and this guilty 

conscience of a fence 

won't just 

paint itself—so, 

holding your breath 

against the stench 

of the whitewash, 

you bust-out 

the biggest, widest 

roller of the bunch

and make short, bliss-

fully thoughtless work 

of what otherwise might 

have taken months 

to confront.

After all, you think,

what harm could it do—

just this once? 

GILDING THE QUOTIDIAN

The water birds sailing 

in search of Byzantium 

are now touching down 
on this flash-flooded town

in search of oases—some 

retention pond of youth, 

some inside-out aquifer 

or impromptu estuary—

like Ponce de León,
like Noah’s enervated raven,

like thousands of Parsifals 
burnt out on the quest—

driven by thirst to steal 

rain from gutter puddles

in a soggy pantomime 

of Promethean fire 

or nectar from some presently

nigh-uncountable 

overstock remainder 

of Holy Grails. 

FINAL JEOPARDY

          (after Robert Creeley)

Walking here, 

standing there, 

killing time 

and yawning—

sitting around 

talking, thinking, 

tinkering 

with the longing 

for anything 

to start, stop, 

bind, or burst 

into flame; 

for anyone 

to come or go, 

to curse or keen-

ly call your name—

what is a life 

when you haul-

out its engine and 

take it apart? What is 

a car 

that won't start.

FREE DESIGN

In the deep end of dawn—

before our words 

have begun their 

long commutes, 

when the warm washed 

light of the sun 

overcomes last night's 

unsoothed moon—

cicadas begin 

their empty drone, 

wind-stippled 

grasses moan, 

wild birds sing 

to no purpose at all. 

Listen: nothing in this world

has a name—still

everything 

has a voice;

nothing here

has been given 

a choice—but everything 

is called. 

EXTRA ORDINARY

Being so much

wiser than her husband, 

the female cardinal 

perching on the brown branch 

knows better than 

to make a statement. 

ANIMAL CONTROL

As an idea, love 

is an easy one 

to hold; 

it's fun to imagine 

bold gestures, 

kind words. But 

when you finally 

catch it, it bites

and scratches—

it soils your lap 

with its piss 

and turds—

and the second 

you loosen 

your grip, it disappears 

down a little burrow 

where you're too 

stout to follow. 

And you say,

I've learned my lesson,

but you haven't 

learned a thing.

So you'll wait 

at the entrance

all night if you have to—

just to be near it,

just to participate.

In the rain, 

in the wind—

you're exultant 

to do it—you'll keep 

this holy vigil. You will 

softly sing. 

EVERYDAY BREAKING POINTS

From the way, July evenings,

at the tiniest quake  

in the gathering 

gray, the rodents 

all burrow,

the sparrows 

pull-up stakes,

and even the proudest 

blossoms of summer 

surrender 

and invert 

their petals—it is plain:

all must submit 

to the thunder’s

mad authority;

all beauty 

is contingent—must exist 

on the border

of abysses, 

of Charybdis's fantastic

maw of ancient chaos. 

What a precious 

and terrible gift 

we've been given—

this graceless susceptibility 

to vicissitudes of wind;

this indomitable 

ground; this savage,

hellish heaven.