OCCUPATIONAL HAZARD

I swear—the older 

you get, the more you 

can't remember, 

but far worse 

than that, the more 

you can't forget. 

It's true; it's 

a bitch. But 

most galling of all 

is how, one day 

when it's nice out,  

you find yourself 

sitting on a bench,

and just watching 

the grass ripple

tricks you into admitting

that the litany 

of your grievances

is at best 

a little 

fusillade of birdshit 

on the otherwise- 

serviceable monument 

which grace 

had commissioned—

and then 

graciousness built—

and then 

forbearance gave 

as a gift 

to existence. 

APOLOGIA

Forever and ever,

from the seraphs 

in the sons

to the demons

in their fathers: 

memory 

is an ulcer—

a hereditary 

lesion. We burn 

where you spit; 

we hurt 

since you were. 

BROWN MOTH

Light worshiper, fellow 

obsessive, 

indentured servant 

of the moon—

how like its surface 

is your chevron body: 

color of the unnoticed, striped 

with the mute button,

dirtied with dust—

your alien eyes 

are consumed 

with the burning 

reflections of grayed fires 

which must look

as enduring

as your mania  

seems stymied by windows 

to us.

ENNEAGRAM 4

The sun 

must be a very 

cruel and narcissistic man 

to be 

so beautiful, so needed—

and to know it—but, 

under pain 

of blindness, still 

prohibit us from staring. 

INCANTATION FOR THE LOST GENERATION

If I could, I would go back there

to kiss the creases 

and clefts of your injuries—

tell you 

I'm sorry 

you were disallowed 

to put your mouth 

around your anger

or your meager joy. 

But,

less for the stern spirit 

than the weeping maid 

inside you 

that drives all of us, I wish

above all to tell you this: 

it is better by far, old man, 

to be defeated 

than destroyed, 

and anyone 

who will not let go 

of a fish 

is an idiot—it's 

just a goddamned fish. 

WHY WE DANCE

Because motion 

and parallax 

are confusing  

to the senses—

the omnipotent synthesis 

of centripetal gravity

must couple 

with inertia's 

brute imperative 

and cancel, tricking us

into forgetting 

at the chorus

that someday, "we"

will no longer be.

JUST SAYING

It's good 

for the conscience 

to admit 

you'd been wrong—

edifying 

to allow, for instance, 

that spring 

should have been called 

the changing of the leaves—

not fall—

if only its first 

observers hadn't been 

cowed by trembling 

shades of green 

never named 

for never seen—

stupefied (since we're 

being honest)

into truth-

ful silence.