Thursday, July 31, 2014

Of Murky Origin


If not for my purely academic interest in the matter,
I might never have bothered to surveil the sunbeam
That fell across my schoolroom desk, but its attention
To detail was radically forgetful; I couldn't help admiring.

Inspired to think with my hands, I set to work renovating
Every uttered distance of my shadow self's design,
Putting the ideas down and circulating among them
Like a proctor at an exam that will likely determine

The thrust of history's artifice. Fortunately my stakes
Were never so high, just high enough for tuning out mistakes
Who rubbed my lighted way into the existing template
For living and found out later what that really meant:

Waking up in the morning, hitting the snooze, rising finally
Into the honking air, my hunger for its breath doing
Little to sweeten the deal with all those routine reversals
We make unwitting room for, though not unwisely.

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Our Mutual Mission


Violence is a pithy contribution to the color in my vowels—
big band music gives me an urge to split the atom.

Penitentially I float down a river of New York minutiae,
restoring the city's faith in me. Out of the toxic hunger

for a performable psychodrama erupts
a fountain of missed connections, fragments of fate.

These are what decide the rate of death's progress
toward the gape of a raw mouth. More suspect, though,

is the idea that this will complete our mission, our sleeping
through the alarm that, once set, cannot be disarmed

except by consent of an imaginary author falling to earth
by way of Zeno's parachute, forever on the verge of opening . . .

Friday, July 25, 2014

Electric Parvenu


Some of my best friends are billionaire space-tourists . . .
Next up, we hear from a man who eats his own garbage!

Sandwich artists rarely have literally thousands of
good T-shirt slogan ideas. "It's chilly in here,"

said no one ever. "Is a window open somewhere?"
Every store in town is fresh out of context.

Ever think of offing yourself? Default to factory settings—
I prefer Perry Como to Bing Crosby . . . sometimes.

Armed to the teeth with old saws, the cutest among us
have all gone loco—who cares how we motivate our hair

when we have the means to employ
ancient astronauts in our entourage? I mean,

you could at least try to see my nut in a virtuous light—
it rewards us with rapture via 1080i clarity.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Meant to See


Morning examines the room,
paradigmatically shifty.

Soon the sky of tomorrow
is devoted to doubting what

the business end of today's
would not hold up. At least

this transience lasts forever—
asleep, a careless rumor reads

into the silent machinery of
my collaboration with you,

an idea that speaks to itself the way
found objects are known to do.

As we've come to suspect,
alienation is its own reward.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Unwritten Song


A feeble echo trampled in the brush with fame
I was busy exorcising is lost to time; no sooner

did I jump aslant it than a higher function
mapped and catalogued the waft of cinders

defying my stubborn description of a vacuum
rubbed into a wound too true to occupy

more than a deftly broken hour I'd rather
not needle or hurdle over, the stain of which

alarmed the hills we deified in the spring
when our dreams had inflamed the barracks.

Sadness grew a universe then, soft enough
to connive by but insufficiently scouted out to maneuver

within its outgrowing, the surly index of which
I'll recite to my love in spite of a scrape with her anthem.

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Night Sky Askew


My bedroom window went berserk: It saw right through me
to the naked ambivalence that was never an issue
but in fact was a laugh I lived and denied too strongly.

Turning to split the scene, I spy a rogue pixel
throw its hat into the party mix; the city of reticent miracles
is never the same. (I ask for nothing less.) The war
on television wants me, I don't know why. I have not yet begun to seep
into a pattern of thought better suited to lunar camouflage.

The coast is as clear as it's going to be. I pursue the worst of it
and have come to rely on phantoms I never knew—
proof that the buddy system has failed us once again.
Fooling myself on foot from here, I'm overrun with chemistry
I don't see a need to thank the stars for; the scope of
my search has outlasted their waste of time.

Sunday, July 6, 2014

Telling Off


Telling off the great and fatuous unknown
after I catch it bulldozing,
I turn to my superior, a shadow whose face is a sentence
I might have been.
                                    Awake for long enough to know
the bent of my breath, it puts forth various theories
of sky and punishment. Nothing is water enough.

So I take a friendly book down from the shelf
and scrub my obscurity clean of the hostile self
I had mistaken for my own.
                                                     Now it's an open space
for the least I could say, though often the past comes
to collect me before I stop there; it likes to eye
the blind side of a day on its way to living me.
Safe to Say


Free to act in line with a twisting
Road's burden of proof, done for
In the way of conscious animals,
The stagger of the task may
Serve to incite a gravity
You could as well do without as apply
To any assumed identity.
A small wrath given birth
In the midst of a voiceless past is secure
Only in its tendency to wander,
Yet it works every time
You make it; nothing left in the dark
Is loved more or less.
                                         Another way to go
May swerve into light devised
To speak to a certain wariness
In the ongoing, the frank dissembling
That comes to pass through a starkly
Constructed malaise, even dread
In the mind that claims the unique
Intelligence a silent day sends
Along the wireless air. Left off there,
I begin dividing the drift of
All that suspends, losing but loose,
Aching for a walk to take
The place of the day's end.

Friday, July 4, 2014

Poem


Slip with me into a cloud
More worthy of theft—
Join this flown fume
Escaping loot-laden through
Heavy answers to when
I need more words to see what I
See, the cut of it all
Including us never enough
But some. Take this hurt
Clarity's oath of the unseen
And for all time be.