poem

 The Undefined

Death is dividing by zero

Life is one over infinity

But first you must learn to count

Start with your fingers, an abacus,

Piles of stones.

Patterns emerge:

Base ten, even and odd

Over and over again.

Soon you’ll be ready

For the higher maths.

Prepare yourself!

It’s like nothing  

You’ve ever seen before.

On the final exam

You have to prove that zero

Is the midpoint of infinity

And whatever you score, of course,

Goes on your permanent record.

Soon and then later, a new math is emerging 

Where you’re a tiny 

But very important variable

Etched in chalk on a giant blackboard

Teeming with inscrutable equations

Whose solutions can only be seen

By someone standing far enough away

2/11/26

poem

 Legacy

Leather bound journals filled with words

Line the shelves of humanity

Everyone has to write

You can jot down whatever you like

Some entries are drab lists

Of whatever you did that day

Many are written with a loveless passion

Like the first gasps of air 

After a near drowning 

Many are entirely dishonest

But can’t exactly be called lies.

A few apologize, deeply, from the heart

Some swirl around the edges 

Of a hollow point that swallows all sentences.

Many are incoherent drivel best 

Ripped out, crumpled and tossed

But then you flip to a page where it all changes—

You fall in love with life

As if it were your own

Suddenly, definitions seem smitten

With their referent terms

Somebody says poetry!, pointing,

But you never see what they saw 

You point at her pointing, and say

Poetry! leaving your own void on the world

For no one to really see.

Then it’s a series of yesses and amens

Followed by a broken matrix

Of epiphanies and prophecies, and primitive

Sketches of what might be a real philosophy.

You see yourself on the stern of a riverboat

Waving at you as you watch your own life float by

It’s already been bookmarked for posterity

And you’re late to the party

By the time you get there 

It’s just another white sheet

Someone will have to smudge.

Every so often the handwriting changes

And it takes a page or two to get used to it 

Eventually, as is often the case, form asserts

Its dominance over sound or maybe 

It’s the other way around and the only

Thing that never changes is meaning.

By the time you’re done you have to rush

To scribble a couple of lines or maybe just one

Open-ended, unfinished, wandering clause.

Your last act is to try to erase.

Nowadays, kids are on to the ruse

There’s nothing left to say!, they say.

They see those boxes of brand new journals 

Every last bit of it, all made up!

Just waiting for the next sucker to fill

Boring! Stupid! Unnecessarily cruel!

Out of respect for their elders

Every boy and girl now dares 

To leave it blank.

2/11/26

poem

 The Age of Ads

You can even write a poem,

If that’s what you like.

And to let her know you mean it

You only have to pay a little extra.

At most, there will be a pop-up ad

Directing her to the flower site

Where she only has to pick the color

Of the vase for the bouquet you already paid for.

You don't have to, of course.

You can always slot into the basic plan

But truth be told, you’ll be lucky

If she ever sees it. 

Consider this: for an extra $12.99 per month 

She’ll receive a new poem every Sunday night

Written in the style of your most haunted work

By our in-house independent contractor

Who is wholly liable for any negative receptions 

Rest assured, she will know 

It arises from the depths of your darkest heart,

Something about the light she shines down there,

Whatever, it doesn't matter, you’re the poet, not us.

Think of the efficiency! No more wasting

Time waiting for manifestly obvious inspiration.

Trust your intuition!

A good marketing campaign aims

To eliminate all doubt. Impulse buy! Click click click. 

By now, we’re all tired of the song and dance

And are looking for a sure thing.

Let us help you!

Nobody wants to go back to the days

Of wondering what it means

When she answers on the first ring.

2/11/26

poem

 Sign Out

Pinpoint hole in the cecum but no spillage of stool

Chest x-ray whiteout of the right lung field

Says her pain is 3/10 and it’s an intra-abdominal catastrophe

This one is stoic

That one hysteric

Code white is called and when everyone arrives

It’s a mistake. He just took off his monitor.

On rounds the next morning she’s dead.

DNR. DNI. Comfort care only. 

Contact precautions. C diff. Enterobacter.

Gown and glove and mask before entering

The ER needs you stat in trauma bay 2

The ICU wants to transfer out the perfed duodenal ulcer

And the medical service is refusing to be primary

The case went perfectly. Wouldn’t have done anything different

The standard of care has been met

Alternatives to surgery thoroughly discussed 

You’re only as good as what you’re working with 

You’re only as good as the tools you use

You’re only as good as your lover thinks 

You’re only as good as the light from the moon

Poor protoplasm. Dirty fat. Rovsing’s sign. 

Too many times I’m just waiting for bad news.

Looking outside after you spent 3 hours mowing

The grass and you’ve cut the wrong lawn.

They always come in threes. 

Early dismissal. Too many tardies. Perfect attendance

I learned this from a master

I read everything he ever wrote

One time I had the perfect fried bologna sandwich

You can save one but not all of them

Wheels in the room by 7:30 AM

The lung has collapsed

The bowels are blue

The heart has stopped

Irreversible ischemia

End stage renal disease. 

He’s starting to brady

Activate the algorithm. ACLS. Shock shock shock. 

Here, let me take over

You’ve been doing it too long

You’re going to get burned out

It’s time to re-dose the epinephrine.

Scalpel please. Never slapped. 

Another set of towels. Reglove. Let’s change our gowns.

I’ll need the endo tower. 

Is that the ureter?

I only drink to shake the thermometer

Yes I can hear you. What did you say about the exam?

Code Gray. Code Brown. Code Violet.

Audible bleeding. Cheyne-Stokes respirations

Tell me about your bowel habits

Your 10:15 is running a half hour late

Are you available for your add-on at 1?

Sponge and needle counts correct

Eating in the hallway, on the way to the ER

You’ll feel a little pinch and then a burn

You’ll feel better when it’s over

Twenty years, it goes by in a flash

I can’t promise an outcome I can’t control

We’ll do our best

How did this happen, doctor?

But he’s going to be alright, right?

I’m sorry for your loss

We tried to save her 

I’m sorry for all the carnage

It looks worse than it is 

My plane leaves in a few hours 

Can I sign out to you now?

2/11/26

poem

 Literary Criticism

Time’s infinite nature daunts 

Even the emptiest of minds

What do you like about Ashbery?

The rollercoaster ride, the bonfire

In the forest fending off

An orbit of yellow eyes

Now so close you can

Smell the singe of fur 

How about Simic?

The spare sliver of skin

Separated from the next 

By a single swing of the scythe 

If past and future disappear

The present must expand

This is everything

2/11/26