KILLER POEM

A shriek 

with its splinters 

and spikes sanded-off, 

its creases 

all filled, smoothed, 

and polished 

with the thick 

shellac of distance—

until 

it shines 

with all the uneasiness 

and pathos 

which play 

in the shadows that eclipse 

your own face 

as it groans

at the sight of its 

grimacing reflection 

in some 

opaque expression's 

strange transparent finish. 

MANKIND

Dreamt I tried to speak 

to the sparrows 

like the serpent 

to the woman—except,

not to tempt, just 

to tell them

they were naked;

thought I'd watch 

them soar up at once 

to cover themselves 

with shorn cloud scraps. 

But instead, 

two dozen 

hard black eyes 

fixed mine back 

from the crab-

apple branches, 

and asked me not:

who told you 

what that was?

but: son of soil, doomed 

to work the earth—

who could have cursed you

to sing 

such a tuneless, 

lean, and unlovely

song to us?

TRUISM

The heart of most matters

is so trivial 

that it's radical—

crisis is the bleeding ink 

which blooms its 

beautiful terrible roses 

all through the tattered 

blotting paper 

of existence 

with the wastefulness 

of death and quiet

poise of gravity,

til you're just 

about ready to toss 

the whole mess

but still recoil 

at the thought 

that one day

you'll be forced

in any case 

to give it all away. 

INFINITE LOOP

Perhaps consciousness is 

recognizing the motions 

as such 

while you're going 

through them, instead 

of only after—

to become, after death, 

less a ghost 

than a photon 

that has no past 

no future, 

no friction—

and for whom 

the notion of transport 

from point to point is trivial. 

It is pointless 

to establish a motive 

or inaction; 

before you walk 

through its 

unbounded door,

the future is a repeating 

remainder 

called nowhere,  

and as soon as you 

leave here, you'll 

already be there. 

FAILING UP

I hate to admit it 

every bit as much 

as you do, but 

it's true that our most hated 

parts might be the places 

that simultaneously 

lust most intensely 

for somebody 

(anyone) to come 

to the rescue,

and those awful weights

which tug like stubborn 

anchors at our centers 

and ground us 

to our murky strife 

are the ones that 

imbue us with the metal 

that sustains us,

drawing our hearts

like iron filings to a magnet 

to the world next door

which summons us 

to wake into

and voluntarily (if not 

enthusiastically) suffer 

through a better life.

NOSTALGIA

It's the way 

the slightest 

autumn breeze 

fans the blaze 

of summer's 

faded green—

tugs at the frail 

leaves of 

memory's trees, 

reminding the penitent 

who now brace

for winter

of a distant sea 

of aquamarine,

placid and reflective 

of those skies 

above of endless 

daylight,

and that humid hum 

of bliss which seemed 

to overlay each night

and sing the praises 

of everything 

it was in life

and the legend 

of how it would 

come to be 

eventually  

so fondly mistaken 

for everything it wasn't. 

ROOMS TO LET

There are no exceptions;

any love 

that comes to us 

is a love that must 

sooner or later go.

This much we know, but

to make it 

even more deceptive, 

think of all 

the disconcerting 

aliases it uses—

pity and self-

loathing, 

pride and fear 

and avarice. 

And notice, when all 

of these feelings 

flea, 

how each one

inevitably seems 

to leave the same way—

at roughly same speed, 

and from roughly 

the same place.

But luckily, as those 

who've invested 

in beauty can attest,

beauty is not a feeling;

beauty is a space.

In fact, it's the space

where all of those fugitive 

feelings were living;

and, of course, even after 

a fugitive leaves, 

the place 

where it was living 

stays.