CHRYSANTHEMUM'S THE WORD

Frowzy mock-flowers

of beat-rug orange, 

attention-deficit red, 

and afterimage yellow—

cordial, but ragged 

as the coming autumn clouds; 

they do not offend 

with their brand 

of hocus pocus, 

nor beg for our attention 

like high summer's 

neon dandies—

because, although 

too impregnable 

to be moved by the wind, 

they know, 

deep in the closed-fisted 

swirl of each corolla, 

that it's too late 

in the year now 

to hope for a perfect body 

and was always 

just plain foolish 

to wish for an unblemished soul. 

NECESSITY

How I've grown 

to resent you, mother 

of invention—

when I fear 

I lack the courage, 

your intention 

is always 

to rush right in 

and suckle me to sleep 

on wisdom; 

when I say 

I have a problem, 

you are quick 

to dispatch it 

with a solution. 

But although it's 

all very timely 

and clever, 

therein lies 

the contraction: 

what you give 

so freely  

is the answer; 

what I crave is 

your attention. 

THE ANSWER

It's what the angel whispered 

just before 

you were born—

and what you'll presently 

foolishly fritter 

your life away, 

scorn by scorn, trying 

to remember: 

like all you encounter, 

she'll be simple 

to understand

until you start 

to love her. 

JUDGEMENT DAY

To help make sense 

of eternity's math 

equation, let 

the afterlife 

be equal to 

endless equivocation. 

*

The real first sacred mystery 

is that, after the creation, 

god would find himself 

of several minds 

about seeing his image 

in the mirror again. 

*

After listening 

to their speeches 

and sermons for so long, 

they start to sound less

like accusations 

and more like 

clever loopholes 

or contextual breeches:

in heaven 

you'll be surrounded 

by familiar faces—

the only difference 

in hell is you'll see them 

in bewilderingly 

unfamiliar situations 

and places.

NO MATCH FOR MY INTRANSIGENCE

How could I be 

like the sea? 

When I'm angry, 

do I grow, at once, both 

overlarge and hungry; 

Do I heavy myself

ceaseless at the grungy 

rocks of reason, 

then blot candor's sky 

with the foam of my fury, 

withering grace 

with briny excoriations  

at the rational edge

of each shore 

where I go? 

How could I be 

like the sea, I repeat

and demand 

that you answer me—though 

I don't want to know.

THE REAL CONVERGENCE OF THE TWAIN

By September, flecks 

of jaundice-yellow 

marble the once brassy 

green of leaves. So it seems 

the need to mix 

frivolity and grief—

to kiss Aurora wide-awake 

and Snow White deep-asleep—

was never the province 

of men and women 

in the street's worst 

thoughts and machinations.

The stimulus 

is ductless, 

wireless, general;

the response,

decided from the start. 

Agony is the blood 

in the heart 

of every child of levity. 

THAT'S ENTERTAINMENT

Could it be 

that your thoughts—

just like

individual pigeons—

simply take pleasure 

in glomming together, 

swooping 

in formation 

over life's roofs 

and branches—then 

fracturing again 

at the slam 

of a car door, or 

the odd boom 

of thunder, or 

the approach of another 

creature who is lost 

in just such a musing? 

At first, the observation 

is a little confusing; 

then suddenly, all this

retreating and reforming 

starts to seem 

more like 

an endgame 

than a metaphor.

You're not sure 

what it is, but 

there's probably 

a lesson here.