The thing is . . .

“how funny things are alone,”
he says, “why
stop at nothing when so
much more is on the line?”
Turns and
carries himself away,
eyes down like
he didn’t know himself.
“How much, how much.
It’s more, anyway,
than’s worth it.”
he can know best himself,
and all the in-betweens,
the MIAs,
compunction makes his allies
“Why think about it? Why
It’s not so
after all.


The cool days gone,
Summer grows from the seeds
Sprinkled when we
Weren’t looking closely;
We rise, occasions
Loosely canons of our
Beakers of winter
Brew over hotbeds we
Ignored; we
Understood subconscious-
Ly, that was familiar,
A dream I remembered
Quietly in the morning
Until it looked like you,
Sideways and unsturdy,
In that way we
Feel. Dry champagne,
The metaphor of affection, I
Acquaint with the scent
Of your hand lotion
And that song I liked best
On the way to work.
They remind me of snow,
And, especially, of skiing.
The fatalists stand up
For a good look at spring
Moving into months
We forgot in our pockets,
And our words were raw
From rubbing them together.
Breath colors January
and pavement autumn,
While snow begins to think
Out loud,
Ready to speak the
Repetition of nostalgia.

Miss Fortune and Her Handmaids

In what love we forge oftener without words
we waste on songs so long attributed
to sleep misplaced, while kings are garments
of our mingled imagination, instruments
unto music we apocalypsed in utero.
This inflames such agile nostaglia
with strides like Icarus imagining weightless,
that we lose all feeling in extremities.
We, rocks in our pockets, sink not softly
but like bodies collapsing into open graves
while the dirge is sung mournful in our memory.

How much like are we to myths, unknown
to us? But vague remembrance, childhood
strung on macaroni bracelets, meets
halfway the weight forgotten days and
more before we had a chance to reconcile
our vergent selves. Lost, we find, are loves,
but still live endings sweeping up
the monochrome credits epitaphed to, often,
us. Clearly, things exist in outer chambers
and rooms less used that make our nocturne
notions swivel on simple feet. More than we
admit, the way the sun mornings thieves
our confidence and not till night resumes
command do we untuck our buried voices.

Dust varies happenstance like dawn descending
softly through our shadow, umbral image of id
platonic with our fortunes in variables
uncontrived and whispered to an ear awaiting
cold breath. So, with softly sounds, our energies move
maybe like misgivings, maybe like midweek dreams,
down from up the under side of sadness,
still reminiscent of our late lady self
and all her cunning wiles. The prostituting
inner parts allure our good nature backstair
and subtle till we can only mouth it
weakly as we exhale, the one word which matters:


You were all I wanted that I never knew I wanted.
Sweet honey, cool water, satisfying, satiating.
Unfairly, you carried the years I’d lived without you,
An ideal, imagined perfection, companion as I dreamed it only,
The monument of what I can’t, for conscience sake, call success
Defined by the expansive chasm of what I can’t call failure
Because I was not competing, was not trying with poor results,
Was not complying sympathetically, although I sympathized,
But I am not complaining: waiting was the wound that made health


Your dilemma, inevitably,
is sub-mediocrity.
On the one hand, you
may lie, and profess my
genius, my talent, my
art. On the other hand,
if you boast my faults,
by requisite dissection
you have famed and
propagated your self-branded
failure, begging the question:
How can you sully me
without, by deed, sustaining


such planets
as orbit

you home

smell of
pine and pavement


words later
our whiskers


these things
mean more
as I leave

the garage light
s h a t t e r s
the stars

I smell
your face
as we