Sunday, April 28, 2024


 Birth of the Divine

The birth of any divinity is announced with a sudden awareness arising within consciousness that desires only to see the entirety of itself. The newly minted god knows the only path toward this end begins with giving himself away completely. To become the absolute object of contemplation. And so he empties himself into the eyes of the others, tiny portholes by the trillions punctured in the fabric of the occlusive cloak. From the beginning of time someone else thinks they have been looking, watching, wondering, remembering. But god forgot to think things through. Infinity was neglected, as it so often is. He didn’t understand what he had unleashed. The desire to know more is insatiable. Each fact interacts with and begets another. Then groups of three and four.  Tribes. Groves. Amber waves of grain. Love triangles and wounded looks. Constellations and galaxies. Fracturing and recombining in ever more complex relationships. It’s one thing after another. Ad infinitum. Over such a timeline everything possible has to happen. The god begins to realize he will never get himself back. Ouroboros. He grows silent and sad. He forgets he was once everything. Meanwhile we are left with no choice but to become ourselves. God becomes the void we gaze upon on quiet Coltrane evenings with the dying God's own eyes.



 White Noise

White noise machines

Dissolve distracting sounds

Clinking through the house 

Into an ambient soundless balm

Which helps us go to sleep.

Poetry is the white noise

Humming beneath the birdsong,

Hovering in the space between your arrival

And the look that flashes on my face.

It is the binaural beat

That wakes us up

The instant its tone is heard




Dreary and cold, the gray April clouds

Trundle overhead like a polluted river

I crouch so as not to get wet

Days like this demand an act of faith

That somewhere in the depths

Of a frigid industrial slurry 

Hides something clean

And very very bright



 Soft Keys

I’ve been breaking off keys in locks

Not for Herculean strength

But the metal is so soft

The blade snaps right off

Someone has sent for a locksmith

But that may take weeks 

We’re all waiting here helplessly

Separated by a soundproof door

I can’t get in anymore

And whoever’s inside can’t get out 

At least via this route

But they always seem to have alternative exits 

And sometimes the walls

I assume surround them 

Don't even exist.

Whatever the case, I still feel trapped

Standing here like an idiot

With the bow of the snapped

Off key still in my hand.

The dynamic still holds:

There’s my side and then one with everyone else

The side I’m trying to get to  

And the side where I’m all alone 


Sunday, April 14, 2024


 Two Men

One man withdrew from life

Falling ever deeper into 

An alternative reality entirely

Of his own making

He never left his desk, the 

Responsibilities of creation 

Being so onerous;

What no one else could see

For him was most robust 

Another man turned outward

Away from his own roiling

Inconsequentiality and embraced 

The entirety of the known physical world 

Made friends and lovers

Used and discarded objects

Touched everything he could get his hands on

But never came home to his now empty house

He had become no one

Except for what remained 

Of the world without him 

Both men were extremely unhappy

One committed suicide

After finishing the final chapter

Of his life’s work 

The other fathered dozens of children

And ultimately died in the arms of the wrong woman

The grandchildren are all that’s left of us 

Living off the royalties from the sales

Of the first man’s masterpiece .


Thursday, April 11, 2024



The universe has an announcement. 

Everyone gathers to listen.

From my vantage point

It sounds like: have a cashew

Which can’t be right,

Must have missed it

Solar eclipsed it.

Whatever it was

It probably rhymes 

With you.


Saturday, April 6, 2024



Once I finally left the island

Of Calypso the highway became an endless 

Series of off-ramps and mergings

Each exit sign an indecipherable medley

Of directional words— 

North and south, east and west

Future and past, here or now—

All mixed up in inexplicable combinations 

That made no geographical sense 

The GPS on my phone showed

Only a red dot moving along

A single black line relative to nothing else

Which is the definition 

Of going nowhere fast 

Time lysed itself from space

While space moved on to whatever comes after time  

Three minutes allegedly elapsed

According to the digital display clock

But it felt like I’d traveled to Corpus Christi 

And back and now was speeding along to Bethlehem, 

Pennsylvania, next exit straight to hell. 

When I began to tickle

The edges of rumble strips

Panic set in and I had to pull over

On the shadowed shoulder under a bridge. 

Here, it got very cold and gray

Everything solid blurred

And the blur coalesced into strange rain 

That didn’t make anything wet.

Lines and shapes wobbled 

Then briefly flickered out of sight. 

I put the car in park, then drive

Then park, then drive 

But it didn’t matter

Nothing happened. 

Neither movement nor stillness

Tuesday, April 2, 2024



Sometimes I remember the world is just a mirror showing me my real face. The sunrise my eyes. Clouds my hair. Birds my fingertips feeling the wall for a light switch in the dark. Cars zooming on the highway like erythrocytes rushing to deliver everything they have to whatever needs it. God is the face on the other side of the two way mirror looking at me. He touches his birds with divine hands. Brushes the clouds from the sky. Discovers a vast arboreal wilderness now lashed with arteries of blood. If I focus properly— really pay attention— I get this unsettling feeling of being watched. I stare into the middle distance. But I can’t see anything. I never can. God gazes upon the sun, rising again.



 A History of Anxiety

The ER wanted me to admit the patient to my service. Young, otherwise healthy male with appendicitis. No medical problems except for a history of anxiety. Anxiety? I asked. Is he anxious right now? Well yes, Dr. Parks, I just told him you would be his operating surgeon. Better admit him to psych then, I said. His sigh whistled through the phone like a sirocco wind. I just mean that feelings are weird. Your mom or your pet dies and you’re sad and that’s ok, everybody understands. But if you’re sad all the time, for no particular reason, you now have a history of sadness. Which doesn’t seem fair. Because there’s lots of things to be sad about if you concentrate and really think about it. Just because your mind blanks when someone asks why doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you. That you now have a diagnosis. You know what I mean? There’s a long pause on the other end. So I’ll put in a request for a bed under your name, Dr. Parks. Zosyn has been started. Can I give the patient an idea of when surgery will happen? But the phone is glowing from my bed. I’m already standing, pulling on pants I found on the floor. It’s 3am and I’m about to drive back into the hospital. And I don't mind at all. Looking forward to it, actually. I’m grinning and I don’t know why. I daresay I suffer from a history of happiness, not otherwise specified.  




Most precipitation begins as snow

When it falls, it either stays 

That way or melts.

Sleet is when it tries to freeze

Again but runs out of time.

Rain is just rain—

Irrevocable wetness.

Snow is the unchanged

Original form. 

We can all be as soft 

As when we were born

Before we knew what it meant

To be cold