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.