poem

 Inside/Outside

On the inside I’m happy

Only the outside is surly and forlorn. 

On the inside I see you

But on the outside act like you’re not even there.

On the inside I hate myself

While on the outside I power through it

Look you in the eye, make you laugh. 

On the outside I love you

Buy you flowers and jewelry

I plot your happiest possible day.

On the inside I know you think I’m stupid,

I know you settle for the waters I’ve polluted 

On the outside I’m grateful

On the inside I seethe with poor kid fury

On the inside I’m deeply sorry

For taking advantage of the situation. 

On the outside I act like I deserve this. And more. 

On the outside I just got a haircut

On the inside I’m a drainpipe clogged with curls 

On the outside i can't even look

Inside, I’m looking, looking, I never stop looking  

12/16/24

poem

 The Alchemist

Once consciousness is understood—

Its source, its emergence, its substance, etc.

That understanding becomes just another

Thought in the stream of consciousness

Which means it can’t be right

Because by the rules of logic

Any component of the whole

Cannot express the totality

Of that which it is merely a part.

You’re thinking of synecdoche 

But that’s just a lame literary device 

So we keep searching, 

Passing through awarenesses of awareness,

Basements to subfloors,

Ends to new beginnings,

Doors opening onto more doors, 

Darknesses to flashes of extraordinary light

And then deeper.

If you descend at a steady rate

In a closed off prison cell of your own design

You lose the sensation of plunging 

It’s like you’re not even moving 

You start to feel the same

Regardless of depth. 

I guess it’s like a warm healing rain

That can explain everything except 

For what it means to be wet.

The kidney is just the kidney

An organ regulating homeostasis

Via concentration gradients in loops of Henle

But that’s different

The kidney can be dissected and studied

Microscoped and subjected to experimental trials 

It is an object for consideration

Socked away deep inside 

The flanks of the dead and the living. 

There are others who still cling 

To the belief that the kidney is an ancient alchemist

Turning all this delicious wine 

Into the foul yellow piss

Steaming the frosted dead leaves 

Huddled together under my backyard eaves 

As usual, I’ve taken something lovely

And turned it into human waste 

Maybe my mind is to blame

Plotting illicit strategies while I sleep

Of concealing its fundamental origin. 

If I could, I’d pass it all off on God

But we all know how that ends—

A predictably solipsistic self-salvation

Or a sorrowless total abnegation.

I think it’s a light that shines through 

Even if the dark never needed it

Every religion gets hung up on whether

You are the hole or the wall or the light

It’s enough to know the darkness is grateful

Because everything here is miraculous

So don’t think of it as being used 

There is an inflection point in life

When one learns that the cost of this experience 

Is that someone has to suffer.

This is the citizenship of the living 

And we all must do our part

12/16/24

poem

 Marcescence

I stood by the window so long watching the wind I became my own portrait trapped in a moment behind the glass. But time stopped which meant there couldn’t be wind anymore.

Some say the problem is that there are too few poets. A shortage of metaphor. And so everything gets assigned to one side of the equation or the other. Others say the problem is too many poets. Everything subject to interpretation. Even I have become one. Certainly this is worse.  

Marcescence is when trees cling to their dead leaves all through the winter. My hands are empty but I cannot remember what it was that I released. 

I spent the rest of the night watching films of the thoughts of the mentally ill. The door was unlocked but leaving verboten. Every creak in the house was just ghosts removing the nails one by one. 

Every loss is a thick scar that becomes twice as hard to cut. But the knives get sharper.

12/16/24

poem

 Chiliad 

Once I get to 1000 poems

I can finally call myself a failed poet

Anything less you can always say

You were only fucking around,

Letting off steam, exploring new hobbies,

An enthusiastic amateur indulging 

In a harmless avocation.

It was never serious! 

You never meant anything by it.

But once you get past 1000 the mask comes off.

All the truth leaks out 

You’re in the cult

A faithful adherent to the creed

Everyone whispers in the adolescence of night 

When truth is the only light 

But once you cross that threshold

You put yourself out there

And now you can be judged,

Laughed at, or worse, ignored.

Another addition to the trash heap of forgettable failures 

Who recognized the song

But didn’t know the words.

Who knew what she wanted 

But forgot to bring it.

Who had the world 

At his fingertips

But bartered it for a view

From the dark side of the moon. 

No, you’re not the secret literary sensation 

Too humble to know if it was any good 

Until the day a famous literary agent 

Stumbled across your website 

And immediately saw how nothing 

Would ever be the same again.

No, not that sort of person at all

Not him. 

You were merely another who tried

And failed 

Tried and failed.

Once I get to 999 I’ll probably quit

And retire a layman

Spare myself the public exam.

I’m pretty sure I know what I am

I just don’t want to have to admit it.

12/11/24

poem

 Librarian

I like how librarians don’t feel obligated 

To say goodbye to you when you leave

They really don't care if you come back

They aren’t graded on customer satisfaction

Or quarterly profit margins

I like how they seem surprised 

If you say anything to them on the way out

Like, why are you talking to me?

Usually they’re just sitting there reading 

Or checking something on the computer screen.

They’re only being themselves

Putting in their hours

Before it’s time to go home.

They have nothing to sell

Everything here is free

Take as you please.

My heaven is all library staffed

By a beautiful librarian who, when I leave,

Sort of half smiles and arches her eyes and 

When I do a double take and look back

I realize it doesn't have anything to do with me—

She’s just lost in her book

12/11/24

poem

 The Story of Us

Everyone has their own idea

On the best way to die.

Not too young or old

Not too demented.

Preferably not alone. 

There is a certain segment of the male cohort

Who envision a late in life myocardial infarction

Halfway through the conjugal act with a much younger consort.

The sentimentalists prefer a soft bed

Numbed to the bone with morphine while 

Gazing into the eyes of everyone they love.

Then there are the hot air balloon enthusiasts 

Who prefer to drift out over the continental shelf 

And watch the stars as the flame slowly dims out.

Romantic novelists pine for something that ends

With two broken hearts— the one who dies

And the one condemned to live. 

For me, I just want to be reading

When the final moment comes

Crashing down, hopefully mid-

Sentence in a banger of a passage

From Molly Bloom or David Foster Wallace,

Or while I’m staring off in reverie,

As I often do, when a certain line

In a banger of a poem really hits.

Death, I’m sure, would have some fun with it—

Wait until I was thoroughly engrossed and then 

Dim the shades just before the killer

Was revealed at the end of the Victorian mystery.

Or whisk me off to Valhalla right before love

Was finally requited in a dogeared Swedish romance.

Or worse, drop the hammer halfway through some

Post-modernist dreck just as the protagonist—

Billy Pumpkin or Rendezvous Jack, probably—

Was intoning the last rites over a minor character, 

Soon to be corpse, named jeffrey parks in yet

Another self-referential run-on sentence monologue

Sorely lacking in guidepost punctuation.

But if I was reading from the Story of Us

I’d like to think Death would exercise

A little patience…. even kindness.

He’d let me finish.

And when I got to the end 

Of everything I’d written 

He’d lean in close and quietly

Ask if I’d like to write one last line.

I’d think for a moment, finding the words,

And then when I reached for the pen

The ornery son of a gun would grin 

And darkness would swiftly descend.

12/8/24

poem

The 50 Nicest Things You Can Say To Me

1. Well aren’t you just the comedian tonight.

2. Wow. I didn't know you could do that.

3. Take your time.  Don’t rush.

4. Faster. As fast as you can.

5. How do you know about that?

6. Remember that time we…. 

7. Remind me to tell you

8. You’re my favorite person

9. Eat some pie. 

10. Yes we have whipped cream.

11. Yes yes you are right. Yes

12. There you go again. Selfish old fool. 

13. If I didn’t love you, I’d find a way.

14. Close your eyes.

15. Count to ten.

16. Open them, silly.

17. How did you ever find me?

18. Don’t answer that. I already know.

19. Good sir. Would you be so kind as to fetch me my fuzzy slippers

20. And a mug of Herbal Essence tea.

21. Let’s find a path and get lost

22. I got the snacks. You bring the drinks.

23. Oh I fucking love you

24. This was a LOT better than I expected

25. I’m up for a movie

26. I’m down for a drink

27. Is it your ankles again?

28. Oh my god your mom

29. How many years ago was that?

30. You had a stupid goatee and ugly sideburns

31. I remember the first time you told me 

32. Tell me again

33. Moron! You asshole!

34. You look like you’d rather read. 

35. I like to listen when you explain it 

36. Please just shut up. 

37. Do you even see me?

38. If you don’t understand how much I love you

39. You’ll never understand how much I love you 

40. Remember to tell them dressing on the side 

41. No cheese.

42. In the afterlife there will have to be cozy blankets 

43. We need to talk about who’s going to die first

44. One day will you take me to Italy?

45. No you cannot heckle the Pope

46. Don’t forget your lunch

47. All you have to do is heat it up

48. Yes, you can have my extra pillow  

49. Yes I will wait up

50. Yes, I’m excited

12/8/24