IMMORTALITY

we are all increasingly
surrounded by our own
latency: nothing recedes

once expressed
virtually. we are left
to our own devices,

literally; bereft of
reality, yet hemmed
in by echos

of our own creativity,
our concentric
cults of personality.

BORN ANXIOUS

the initial descent always

begins with aiming the plane

more towards ground than sky,

acknowledging we can't

stay forever

way up high.

millions of flight

miles later

I still find myself

thinking each time, “this is it,

we’re all going to die.”

INDUSTRY

words are for me

buildings full of work

best kept

clear of nature:

no rivers

or deer

encroaching --

just the steel under-

girding of hardened

punctuation, placed

to enforce safety.

i need to be sure how

you'll take me.

MY FRIEND YOUR DEATH (for Jeffrey Nelson)

my friend
your death
makes no sense --
world without

an end to suffering.
let me rest
in your memory

until you become
part of me;
i pray

someone
someday:

please do
the same for me.

BANANA

it’s no good to think

too much about the act

of eating, or who,

how, or what you are

fucking. try not to

fix your attention

on where they come from

and what happens next

after lunch or sex.

EMPTY

the empty poet

sits and waits

for what?

the music

that visits

his tilted head,

for words to appear

as sounds instead

of symbols, suited

for delivery, embalmed

as poetry, alive only

from a distance

but close up:

quite dead.

NEW MATH

we have chosen to give up

equity and other forms

of measuring. we simply are,  

more than we are not. 

as if we know: the sum 

total of what

we've got will not

be all

that defines us.

our net worth will

be  calculated 

using debits for lack 

of kindness, credits 

for relieving sadness.

OWNED

i wear dogs 

like blankets, human-
spooning canines soothing
their addled puppy soul
by climbing inside mine.

JUST FOR THE MOMENT

you joked: there ought to be

a record, "what's it all about, alkie?"

that would be funny, if only

records still existed

and your liver could take a joke.

and if only you weren't

still wishing for the burn and tickle

of cheap whiskey, some memory of fumbling

at brand new bra clasps, 

removing whatever got in 

your way, without thinking

what comes next or needing

to feel blessed.

VISITATION

death and funerals
break down

the illusion
we might live
forever.

crying arises from
saying goodbye

and also because
we fear

we haven't been
fully here.

YOU WERE THE LATTER (for Jack Erwin)

there are people
you will know
your whole life
and never truly
meet. and then
there are people
you meet
one time
and know forever.

WHY NOT

loosen up everything:
your clothes
your pose
that face
you froze.

let life's wonder
wander across
every feeling,
every place
inside and outside
your personal
space.

feel the slack as you
take your life back.

OH TO GIVE UP (for Steve Jobs)

oh to give up
selling anything --
to live without

being possessed
by pretense,
driven by processes,

acting for reasons
less than wonder
and reverence: oh

to let this life fit me fully
like a favorite t-shirt,
soft and holy.

NEXT

you are not complex:
some day you will be

rotting in a box. unless
they burn your body first.

in which case you'll simply
become a pile of dust.

so what
should you do
next?

ALBATROSS

artists are keen
on justice not to mention
high on drugs and mighty
full of their own surmise.

poets and
other malcontents
are always pointing
at unpleasant

events: the inequity
of bombs and wealth,
and how big

companies operate in stealth
mode the better
to evade the public distrust
and stoke the fires of consumer

lust. it was
ever thus.

IN POETRY

it’s tempting to crowd
words together cleverly,
like too many empty people

rushing japanese subway cars,
each line hand-packed
with metaphors, yet
signifying nothing.

on the other hand
it’s difficult to manipulate
the fewest words needed to create
work through which an artist might
pass unheeded -- in control but not
commanding, heard but never seen --

the hand of god invisibly
doing its accidental thing.

SPACE BETWEEN

the poem is
a pause from the active,
a moment to take

inventory, rearrange, try
to explain the entropy
that masquerades as life's
momentum. the poem is

a slow place,
a space between
cities like a plane
stretched out in
the sky, passing by.

WHAT HAPPENS TO US

lives are lived by someone
on the path to becoming
no one. and yet this is
not evidence of nothingness

any more than the snake's
leftover skin is meant to
suggest he never was.

we all leave
behind used up
stuff; we're not from nothing
to nothing, but from dust
to dust.

GET USED TO IT

so this is the summer
of people dropping dead.

some are given months,
only make it a week.
others wither and never
come back from what
seemed a good night's

sleep. hearts
blow up,
and tumors
grow all over
and people

disappear.
where

the fuck
did they go?

BIG PLANS

every fourth we
roll to the motor
city; my whole family

crowds around
fireworks and food,
pool parties full

of blown-up bodies,
the rafts slick with suntan
oil left behind
by old bloated flesh.

as detroit explodes
in the background, we glisten
and float as if death
were afraid of water
and good times.

JUST THIS

move through this
world in pursuit
of justice and you

can expect to find
the opposite:
the randomness of this

reality resists
rules evenly applied
across all acts and types.

so try
as you might,
it's hard not to

arrive at this:
life is

not fair,
and justice is

neither here
nor there.

TAKE ME

there are nights when dying
first occurs to me -- as in pre-
deceasing -- as one

possible
viable
solution to others'
suffering.

there is nothing worse than feeling

helpless. and you know words
are worthless.

and so you rehearse
being willing to
go first.

STAY LOW

you rush
into suffering, hell-bent
on saving
the burning
remains
of whatever terror

you once
lived in,
you rest
under blankets
of injustice
you find comfort

in feeling
helpless against
imaginary forces
conspiring to keep you wrapped
in familiar
misery

you're in need
of a radical self-
ectomy

until then
please stay
low to the ground
crawling towards
suffocation or less
likely, safety.

CONDITIONAL

there's not so much
to poetry; like life
it's mostly pageantry,
a way to make the time go

by. a word placed
here quite carefully
followed by a drunken slew
of accidental phrases
tossed off recklessly --
for which we'll later
make more than a few

apologies, unless of course
these words draw praises.

HISTORY OF WONDER

i've never been much good
with tools or history.
their usefulness was lost,
or at least it was on me.

i never learned how to build
anything save for
poems, nor
could i remember any
stone hard facts
about Ancient Rome or
how things were supposed to be
made with metal or wood.

thank god my father
had no idea how
to hammer or screw or what
it was that allen
wrenches were supposed to do,

i don't think
i was the right son
to pass these things on to.
i read ginsberg and wieners
instead, my head sunk
low in the back of bookstores
and physics classes, not wanting
to be mistaken for a boy-
lover or a word-fluffer,
unable to construct
any facade of usefulness
i could hide under.

meanwhile inside i built
my own useless
history of wonder.

BENEDICTION

did you know
some of us are dying
down here? and so
this is a missive

written in fear
for all that we are
losing and what has yet to be
set free.

and why do we have to
ask for what is obvious: that
you would pay attention to us?

no. we didn't ask to be
here but we like it
just the same; is there
a refuge from this pain
or will we live it all again? no

one seems to know --
but if you're there you do;
we could use some answers, and
we don't have anyone to ask

but you.

THE ROOF, THE ROOF

first i wanted to be

a philosopher
then a poet.

skipped fire-
man altogether;

now i commit
arson with letters.

i burn down houses
of comfort by kindling

discontent, magnifying
questions of origin and intent.

i burn holes of self-
conscious inquiry
into what are we doing
here, and why
were we sent?

BREAKFAST (for Steven Bauer)

we sit literally
over our own orders
of eggs and coffee discussing
character disorders like poetry
and philandering and whether
cancer is always a bad thing --

you wolfing through
all that gravy and me
feeling too queasy to take
in that greasy remedy;

hung over? allegedly.
you quit
drinking a dozen
years ago, while i lit
the old school town
on fire the night
before. you've forgotten
more than I've yet
learned about writing,
which makes me want to
keep trying.

THAT'S ENOUGH

so what if

you date me
validate me
appreciate me?

i still die, maybe
a little bit happier
along the way.

but why is it so
important to
create happy

moments, pain-free
increments to divide up
this temporary something

seemingly stuck between
volumes of
nothingness?
(with apologies
to alan watts.)

it’s because we are
suspicious
there might be something
more than this.

UNTIL YOU MAKE IT

what is the source of your luminous
confidence? it's not beauty.
you are too numb.

is it wisdom? you are
too young. your dazzle is
likely bravado, just dumb
attitude wrapped tightly over fear,
as the fire that burns behind

your eyes
eats

everyone
alive.

DONUTS

we used to write
real letters,
make mix tapes,
spend hours drinking
bad coffee and loving

donuts. we were artists
because we couldn't
keep secrets from ourselves.

our smoking was the truth
to your dare; we didn't care
what you thought of us just
as long as you did, and we didn't
question what was taught to us,
we wrapped ourselves
in books and hid.

and not a day went by
we didn't try to write
our way out of pain
before suffering had us
making mix tapes and eating
donuts again.

LIVE A LITTLE

premise: you are
drowning but not

quickly. settle in.
it might be days

before you go under.
you can anticipate

suffering if you want,
but for now you are

merely afloat, treading
water, with plenty of energy

to last; you can take
occasional rests, imagining

you are wrapped in a warm salty
wet blanket. you are not dead
yet. you are just as safe
and as doomed as you will ever get.

OUTSTRETCHED

when i write you
i want you

to hear all the hoping
energy in between words.

i am teasing
death, a trapeze
artist without a net, hell-
bent on flying
to meet outstretched hands
or sudden death.

THE DOWNSIDE OF MEDITATION

once you learn to really sit
still, your mind not

wrapped around phrases
and failures, there's temptation

to just sit
more and more, idling

electric-car style --
going nowhere

for quite a while.

THOROUGHLY MODERN POETS

these thoroughly modern
poets are prideful --
too many words
too smirkingly assembled,

their dumbstruck images
plucked wholesale
from various field guides
and the scariest dead

languages.
can't they find better
hiding places?

WHAT IS NEEDED IS RECKLESS

what words
to choose or do

words choose us?
how many mute

stupefied artists
sit petrified
waiting for some divine
intervention, a literal
voice from heaven when

what is needed is reckless
abandon. action
is all the inspiration
we can count on.

SIR, WITH VIGILANCE

can we have no more
talk of cancer,

no mention of hearts
unless metaphorical --

a slim reprieve
from concerns anatomical?

the smell of spring should
mean allergies and whimsy;
might we be spared momentarily
these intimations of mortality
so we can focus on seasonal
frivolity? dear god i'll gladly

huff albuterol if you'll agree
to pause the fall of
everyone i've ever loved, allow
them to remain below while you,
sir, with vigilance,
keep watch above.

PARTNERS

no one can
save you least
of all your lovers;
you won't find
a savior hiding behind

that escape door.
your mortal fear is
welcome here.
your adrenal
sweat dampens
my lonely fear.

together: why
not disappear?

REJOICE

rejoice though you are

on a path which leads

to your death.

(excuse me?

not likely.)

rejoice because you are

surely on the path

which leads to your death.

no fork ahead

or behind, and so

your mind is what is

left. rejoice on the path

that is your life

and worry not

what comes next.

be simple and reside

on the path that flows forth

on the in and out

of your effortless

breath.

OPEN

every poem is a beating
heart, a sawed-through surgical

invasion of your innermost

parts, an act of brutal

mercy that brings suffering

and a fresh start.

THE DOCTOR IS IN

something magnetic or dyspeptic

attracts me to psychiatric

types, or the sons and daughters

of these head doctors. i have friends

born into the mirrored self-

contemplation of being the scion

of a parent you can rely on

to dissect more than protect.

let he who is without

sin cast the first aspersion.

like lucy in her five-cent booth

the doctor is in.

and oddly they are often

pulled into the profession

themselves, broken

parts hell

bent on breaking

the pieces back

together again.

WONDER

reading favorite guys

like judd and creeley

writing how they build

architecture and poetry and nothing

they say makes

any sense to me.

it's not in theory

but in practice

they get to me.

maybe when minimalists try

to get expansive and shit

their hearts aren't in it.

it's only in the open

question, the middle-

ground of wonder where

the addled, searching mind

can for once recline that

these men and their ideas reside:

in words struck stationary and statues

set solidly on solitary expanses of land

where no one was ever

intended to stand.

PEDIGREE

from within my familial

fear of tardy and doing it

wrong i failed somehow

to foresee a future full

of mistake latency

disguised as social currency.

i am in a constant state

of high anxiety and addled

perplexity.

CLUTCH (for Eileen Hess)

i am not a world
traveler by choice;
my entire universe
could be contained

within my wife's
purse. i wouldn't venture
anywhere if i could
just curl up and live
in there.

there's gum and make-up,
mints and money, a museum
devoted to my honey. if only
there was room enough

i'd happily remain inside her clutch.

POOPEREL (for Laurel Hess)

my nephews can't say fart or crap;
they toot and poop instead.
their mother has it in her head

there's something cruder
about a farter than a tooter,
and a crapper than a pooper.

as an uncle i submit

(while crying bullshit

on her limits!)
but it scarcely matters

what i think.

everyone knows

poops and farts
by any other name

still carry the same

awesome stink.

CARDINAL (for Karen Lafer Haithcock)

i’ll be honest:
i don't notice

birds sitting around
in the sky or in trees

or think about why
(as you do) they sing
or what enables them to
swim across a breeze. i have

scarcely grey memories of this
or that bird backgrounding some scene or other
with an incidental tweet or flutter.

but there is something memorable,
i can’t lie, about cardinals
flying low over new snow,
as if the air were alive and full

of blood and fear maybe,
and too purposeful to dry,
my dear, and too beautiful
to die, baby.

OF PORN AND POETRY

take off your clothes
and capture your body
exposed and before long
everybody will go and care
there, wherever. but erect

your thoughts instead
to some blog, taut
with intent to reveal
how naked you
feel about truly bare
areas like your soul
and where it goes...

and nobody comes.

poetry rhymes
with futility and pandering
is strategy.

BUSTED

oh arrogant
ghost of social
nights blindly spent --

how it went:

entwined, the holy echoes
of girls, imagined
moans of misspent

youth. egos together
like gelatin, nerves
quivering, flesh left

exposed to the search-
lights. police, action, "i only
pried her top off

moments before
you arrived."

COLD COMFORT

dearest snow-
storm: did you know

someday it will be
warm again? or so
the weatherman said.

and when that day comes
you'll be dead.

so paralyze us
and freeze our toes --
someday we'll drink
you from a hose.

NO MIND

whatever feverish delusions
you dress up as reality
have little
hold over
me, lover.

i don't believe in anything
except believing less
and being kind,
having more faith
in behavior and paying
no mind
to what anyone is
saying.