pure reasons

Everything happens for a reason
that has nothing to do with your life
or future happiness. You can find it out

nevertheless if you dig, and investigate

the causes of all things -
they will be understandable, and bring
you no comfort. Eventually,

when something happens, you won't even
feel the curiosity.

hyperextend

I feel like I missed the strongest angle of approach
on this one. Ever get that feeling?
Like a phantom limb,
stronger than your regular limb
but you couldn’t quite inhabit and possess it.
It’s just out there, tingling
waiting to be drawn in

cut to fit

You know God wouldn't give you it
if you weren't strong enough.
This burden only you can bear,
arrived by parcel post today.
Cut tape, pull back the cardboard flap
and see what lies inside.
The sender's name is not germane -
all gifts come from one place,
you know, except for suicide.
So pull it out, and try it on
as tears creep down your face.
And take a mirror picture, showing
all the best you could have been,
before it's all erased.

born entrepreneur

I used to make my own eclipses
all the time, with a tennis ball!

Kids would come running to look. Only two
or three at a time could see, but I

was more than capable
of keeping it up all day, or
for as long as they

kept bringing them nickels. Dream big,

says I. If you want, you can reach for the sky.

Today, I've run so many schemes and scams,
delighted so many with long and short cons,
I can pretty much sit on my laurels

- in fact, so can you! I designed a line
of skirts, shorts and pants
with a circular laurel wreath

right there on the ass, on the seat
embossed.

It looks beautiful there,
for all to see. And they'll know where you sit

sits victory

at luxurious cost.

vengeful spirit

I was a spook
conjured forth by my father
and mom, to drift
in the world and haunt everyone
I touch, from siblings
to lovers and friends, but
I sucked at it, though.

This was not the end.

Her hypothetical

She keeps the scenario to herself,
and whiles away at it sometimes.
Although she knows everything she'd do,
it never gets anywhere she likes -

since the other one in the scenario
is a statue, or might as well be. Stone,

or bronze or wood - the substance may change,
the composure remains: immovably prone.

She can't even picture him come to life,
though she know he's alive as he can be.
She can't even picture just what he'd do,
she cannot presume to decide, you see.

She's decided her hypothetical
for herself, every myriad branching way
every possible future, splitting off -

but he lies like a statue of ash and clay.
So she can't take his hand,
and run down those paths.
She can't breathe her life into him, or kiss
the spell away, and free his will -
as the branches fall,
like a burning wish,

from what's possible.

burthen

She broke the silence of certain things:
she came right out and said it to him.

They'd been dragging togetherness by the neck
each with a hand on the pulsing throat,
with its feet making independent trails

in the dust that was all that was left
of the long way they'd chosen to go.

She gave up to him what was left of their hope,
and he shook his head. So she let it drop

She'd have cried,
if the desert had left any tears in her.
Now released, he let go and they walked

side by side towards the same horizon point,

he occasionally passing the time of day, but she

with togetherness still in tow. She could just

let it go,

but held tight by the throat -
she knew if she did,
she'd stay.

post-

Ok. Now what I did was - and I don't
want you to tell anyone about this
- I destroyed the universe.

It was an accident, but it wasn't.
It was just an idea I had. I thought

nothing of it,

and it suddenly was.
Now there's nothing left, and
somehow I've got to pretend

I love it

gathering omens

Love is a fucked clock
that beats faster or slower depending
on how much time you have now.
Love is a prison without walls or bars.
Love is a metal fish that holds its breath to fly,
with all the world inside. Love is an origami swan
made of the London Times, on a day of disasters.

Love is what makes you realize it's over.
Love is what makes you wish it would come faster.
Love is what makes you sure you can handle it

this time.

You've had lessons to learn, all this time
and who can say you didn't?

There's almost a sign.

The History of Space Awaits

Space

is prehistoric, now. It's one
long age, without any eras
of change, not since

it became transparent.

It's winners
write the history books,
and far as we can see

nobody's lost a thing up there
except for us, some junk.

The contest is ready
perhaps, to be begun.

If nobody else shows up,
we'll have to do everything ourselves.

As soon as we're done sorting out who's won
down here, of course. We've a couple of shelves

to fill, but winners
are scarce on the ground.

Perhaps we can hire some
from whoever is left at the end
of our next go-round.

rough accounting

We don't deserve love.
None of us do. But

sometimes you're given a gift,
you know? You could spend
all the rest of your life

in earning it. Or you
can let it go.

Count all the blessings that you deserved,
then ask yourself where you'd have gotten them from
if you'd been refused.
Look at what's left that you lucked into -
and if you would earn what it's worth to you,
you have time to burn, to be wasted or used,
'til the bill comes due.

crying wolf in sheep's clothing

Piotr the folktale wolf felt
imprisoned in his role: he must always hunt sheep

by deceit.

Since that is how it goes
in the folktale he lives. He get ups
in the evening and put ons

sheep's clothes

like a deviant, he reproaches us all.
Why not as a wolf? I could stalk and slay
with the big bad worst of them! He cries

hot tears in shame,

getting wool in his eyes.

That end too soon Pt.2

Poems like that go on so far
as they will, not a line or a sentiment
more. When they wrap up neat,
you can't force them on
toward the point that was yours,
just a few lines beyond.
Not for all of your promise
of neat little image to come,
or powerful theme to explore,
or bells or a bow to put on.

Such a poem won't care.
Having come to a perfect close, there is nothing
beyond you can offer it. There:

It has reached its end.

Let it rest. Be at peace.
If you try to force things,
pile stanzas on, or wedge
lines between - it grows
spiteful and bent, and bloated
and tears its clothes and hair.

You cannot recapture that perfect
lull - completeness, and meaning
arising in you to loft up, waft over
and settle in full - by stalking on
wolfishly after a point you already bulled
past, blinded by tears and wool.

That end too soon.

Sometimes a poem, like a love affair
(God I hate that term, so seventies,
so knowingly faux-louche) ends
before it makes the point
it was made to make.

The point you made it to make,
so you thought. The point you began it
to make, but you'd barely begun to lay
your well-prepared plan, when right
or wrong in the middle of things,
or so you thought, it
suddenly twists, and has

stung the hand
that cried and swore it had held
all the strings.

Its own perfect point
brought home in your skin, and stuck

with no way to pull out
or go on, or again begin.

forge of immortality

We stood back from the cliff and looked
like we were being immortalized
in trashy catchy art and songs,
eternally disposable

- then turned and looked: each other's eyes
held something universal truth
could not compete one minute with.
Our poses struck us into proofs,
and ran off prints innumerable

A memory, preserved in bliss

to be forgotten and consumed
by starving lovers of the arts
who cannot get enough of you
consumed in moments such as this,
and me, the sum and parts of all

you cannot get enough of, too.

There's something of sincerity,
such glory to be thrown away
in private moments, torn from love

And set up larger than display.

You almost couldn't look away.
It's hard to look at all, somehow.
But they have seen, and they will be

Forgetting us forever now.

two silences

Silence is uncomfortable
because of what lies underneath.
The topics we don't want to broach.
The treaties we'd be loathe to breach -
agreements forged in silences
that came in after cracks and storms.
We know now better than to sail
where bitter lightnings flash and warn
behind the eyes we're trying to love.

But love grows bitter everywhere
it's been agreed love cannot go.
Love knows that it could triumph there,
if only it would be allowed.

Love cannot stand such lack of faith
- when nothing is unconquerable!
That nothing's going to stop us now.
That nothing's going to take our place.

But silences like yours and mine
are quite a different crock of fish.
Uncomfortable, they aren't at all -
just pauses for reflection, and
appreciation of each dish
served up in neverending course
- made up of everyone and thing,
cosmically or locally sourced,
prepared with effortless aplomb,
considered individually
and made to sing.

And never wrong -
except that we were entertained.
We fall to laughter at the lapse,
and lapse into a silence, that
has never yet been strained.

We eat the universe by turns,
in perfect leisure, at our ease
as if we know I'll never find
the end of you, or you of me.

no gardener

I discovered that I am no gardener.
I like to put on my old favorite
t-shirt, now holey, my old favorite
Chucks, now riddled with rips and
no longer maroon; I like to put on

my soft, tough yellow leather work gloves,
and pull, slide into them, fap and thap
between the knuckles, working them on,

I like grabbing the tools I plan to use,
and I like planning to use them.

But several hours later I have been frustrated
in my active meditations. I have not gloried
in my bodily exertions. My mind spent the time
in confusion and regret, thinking "is that also
a weed?" Reaching in and grasping long stems

of twined vines, woven through the bush's branches
and pulling them through and out, like
entrails. Making piles of them.

Thinking "Why must I cleave this poor
vigorous, green leafy blossomlike shoot
just to be even with the others?" Working my way
all the way around the house, over and through
and into the bushes. Killing a spider, who
was in her home, not mine.

She had glaring, neon orange rays
on her abdomen, like an alien death's head.

Thinking, near the end, "I think I only love
wild plants,
that grow and thrive without being tended."

Thinking all along, maybe it was the weeds I love.

Work done, gloves sweat through in patches like
cow spots, standing back and looking at the
now-tamed hedge, I think: I bet this whole thing

could be a weed if we let it.

advice from one's self-image

Instead of jerk,
be the True King in this
ex-relationship!
Make your move with sure
and honest. If Question comes -
beat it with truth.
She will be the one amazed,
and not blaming you
for a thing. Breaking up
with her was in ways,
a gift disguised.
Now you reveal it.
Surprise!

aftermaths

You held your finger in the flame by accident
and so you burned it even worse
than you would have.
And you'll be nursing it all day
like a baby
too young to have learned any lesson
beyond how to cry.
You refuse to cry.
You wouldn't give yourself
the satisfaction. And

you love the pretty lights
dancing. The candle isn't worth
the game, maybe, but it's worth

The candle. And the pain of it
drowns, growing wrinkled in the bath,

as the wet block of book
that distracted you,
that you dropped in surprise
lies spread open, and sunning itself

in the window-light.

RIPE

I saw a girl at Walmart, she was RIPE

or so her baseball hat said
in spangly letters, pink on green.
She had
those eyes,
and
that hair,

and denim butt-shorts.
Her t-shirt proclaimed
"Thank GOD

when you see me,"
So I did. And
I prayed for humanity.

subjectivity

Isn't this nice? I don't know what is

if I have to ask, I guess. But this
is nice to me. And to you, I hope

you can see what I mean. I am not,
after all,

a dope.

And if you agree
this is nice? I know
other things I'd guess

you would like, just as well - or
well, almost. It could be I've led

with the best thing I know,

just to mess with your head.

alphabetical order

I want to read you in alphabetical order.
Meticulous from A to Z, look you up
sequentially and deeply read you
through and through, from literal
to subtext, you with all your hints
and innuendos - nothing would be skimmed
or missed.

Every part of you, perused, pondered in
and deeply kissed. Poked and probed,
I should suspect - though some parts
maybe more than most.

And some of you's been doubly,
triply named - quadruply, even,
up to sextuply and more! One hopes

that you won't mind, but all such names
shall count as separate parts.
Each to be treated unredundantly,

to be read through again
with interest fresh as first time through,
a chance to skip around through you
and make innumerable starts,

then to resume sequentially
from where we left off breathlessly,
in perfect order to pursue.
And once we're done, begin anew?

We'd not be finished for some time,
if you approve this plan of mine.

I wouldn't take you in one go,
but rather set some time aside
to take you up, luxuriate
in stretches as the hours go by,

or sometimes snatch in fits
and starts what times we'd steal,
snuck guiltily from times we'd set
for other things we had to do,

now spent in we,
perused by us,
in every part.

At least, such is what I'd assume.
You'd read me as I'm reading you,
not lie back learning what it's like

to be a book read through,
stripped bare by candlelight.

Can you share your personal destiny/legacy in a haiku?

I will try. Ahem.

Haiku to commence in three,

two, one - GO!

No.

"Twisted Individual"

I came to get up I came to get down, I came to get
back drive forth chase your forces around the block 
double-back, bite you in the ass and retreat.
Strategically, but you know me I wouldn’t ever admit defeat!
Even if you could pull it off, but you’re soft -
you talk loud, while you swing your little itty bitty stick around
(blatantly ignoring Presidential advice) well I suppose
the only history you know is Miami Vice, like
old tv shows, in syndication
Well I’m about to bring you up to speed with information
you ain’t seen yet, heard yet,
it’s not on the net,
in your online chat group live on the world wide web,
because the only place you’ll get it is here!
I am in your face, from the nose to the ear
so it’s clear you need to focus
I’ll conduct you to the chorus
weed your mind like it’s a garden and arrange it like a florist, ‘cause

I’m the original.
I’m the original Twisted individual!
I’m the original.
Come on come over baby and twist a little with me

I’m the original.
I’m the original Twisted individual!
I’m the original.
You get all bent out of shape but you’re cute that way!

I’m bad to the bone, I’m good the - last- drop,
I rock the players and the haters alike and I won’t stop
competing on the field contributing to the scene
I come clean and I play a clean game, but that don’t mean
I won’t hit - hard - knock out your mouth-guard
you come tardy, I roll over ya for ninety-nine yards
so it’s score 1 for the visitor
here comes the inquisitor 
Sit back in the comfy chair and just watch, as I get busier ’cause

I’m the original.
I’m the original Twisted individual!
I’m the original.
Come on come over baby and twist a little with me

I’m the original.
I’m the original Twisted individual!
I’m the original.
You get all bent out of shape but you’re cute that way!

lost plots

When I was a child once
I made up a story to tell
grown-ups, about
who I actually was.
I wasn't the hero
just the one stuff happened to.
There was narration
like a pouty detective
on a missing case,
and a trusty cap gun
for standoffs
before it was dumb. Most
of it wasn't in the
story. I told them

other endings, or
about cases I'd solve
if they were mine. The narration
would go

"I'd really like to hit that guy.
He needs it"
but I didn't. Or
"That girl's sure pretty and needs
kissing!"

I didn't though. I was my own
sidekick in those says, self-
sufficient. Urging the hero

on. I don't know what he was
waiting for. You never saw

a girl needed kissing
so much in your life.

How dear you are to me

I know how dear you are to me, it's just
that sometimes, all my feeling goes away
except
I know
intellectually, at least
how dear you are to me
has held a better world together
than the one I see. I wish

sometimes my heart
could fly away, instead
of apart, leaving me to

the lurid, lucid, detailed memory
exhumed and charged, by imitating art

to life. Then suddenly, it trickles
back to flood, scablands caressed

one million tons of meltwater
rush crushing, hurling grinding rock

the ice plug of some glacial lake
gave way, on tick of geologic clock.

You wait an age for tock, and

fuck, how dear you are. To me,
you are the line I hold

against the flow, for dearest life

to me, is yours. I see that

everywhere I go,

now. I don't know how
anymore.

Whenever it steals over me

I'll take my sleep
whenever it steals over me, I might awake
for water, end up lighting smokes
and closing windows, but
I know I'm being called,
and where, and when:
I'm bound for down,
my time has stalled
and all too soon, it must
start up, again.

And so, just now
in fact:

I wish you good morning,
and I'll chase through night
after you 'til your dawn has broken,

over me,

to get it back.