Watching Some Thing Careening Toward Somewhere

It is so impossible to fight
when your tips
are so veiled. I want to hi-jack

the process, suck
the stem’s meat,
and leave the husk—
a hurdle.



Who is Possibility?
Who is Limit? What windows
are made for knocking
with rocks and wishes?

I’m always asking questions.
It’s a rhetorical flourish.
Better left to those with interlocutors
that may search for answers—
that may scrawl answers.

I understand

what you mean. This is our yoga.
It is the reward, the goal,
and we are here to yoke
closer to this Truth.

But then why
are your ambitions?
Why share anything
with anyone?
And why show
the cover of a new book?
And why stitch
manuscript after manuscript after manuscript?

A Point, A Map

What does a lie or liar mean to you?
Show me the contour of the terrain and describe the taste of your staked ownership, with as few rods as possible.
I am interested in pictures of projections of constellations and maps that demonstrate the singular nature of viewing—you know, the fact that a view point is from point and you most move that to take a whole thing in.
I propose Kant and the sound of my voice.

On understanding: a quick note

I hold all truths to be self-evident.

I need not think further. I turn
in a stream of concrete
and polaroids encased in superglue.

What is the meaning of thirteen
blackbirds? To peel
the wings off? To pluck
the feathers?

To tear the beak off?
To rip out the ribs and find some pearl hidden in still-hot entrails?
Will a jewel give this meat

Will will will words worthy winnings?

The meaning is that it is.

The misconception is that all things are here for you. Not everything is made for you to consume without thought or work. Not every smattering of words is made for you to cut up and find A Meaning. Some things are here as nebulous and relational. You get out what you put in, filling the mortar between the rough stones to complete the wall. Don’t be so stupid as to suggest that something is bad because you aren’t spoonfed an easy story.

Standing in line

for Philip Levine


The cover of the book of poems, What Work Is by Philip Levine. (ISBN-10: 0679740589)
What Work Is by Philip Levine (ISBN-10: 0679740589)

Standing the concrete of a backbone,
the spine end on end, plate on plate,
over knees and ground meat of feet
is harder than to move. Yes, I also stand in line.

Yes I also stand at sandwich counters, behind
a register. I also fall down the holes, the caves,
the wells and let the whole thing collapse in burning.
Always burning, as though coal never ended.
A prehistory never-ending.



Yes, this sounds nothing like Philip Levine (unless you’re pointing to some of the vocabulary), but I had What Work Is buzzing through my head as I wrote this. I hope to offer you an essay about a poem from that book.