poem

 The Investor

I heavily invested, fairly early on, in an unknown company that manufactured something utterly banal but essential. Not that I’m some genius. Some card shark who knows everyone’s tell. There were other companies that made the exact same thing. Everyone knew it had to sell. The demand seemed limitless. I didn’t care about the competition. After all, there are lots of toilet paper and breakfast cereal brands and they all do fine. None of them ever fails. Not like a pizza joint or a love affair begun under the influence of infinite transcendence. That was my disposition— a tendency toward the sure thing over the spectacular pay off. I was what is known as a smart investor. If forced to play roulette, half went on black, half went on white while I always kept a little behind to cover the vig. I didn’t believe in bubbles and downturns were just the term for the end of every love song. I don't even buy the things I’ve leveraged my life on. Whatever’s on sale, I guess. It’s best not to get too emotionally involved. Don’t let someone else’s jackpot instill feelings of doubt. Trust the process. All your losses will even out.

4/6/25

poem

 The Immigrant

No, my papers are not in order. I have no right to be here. I was born in another country far beyond these borders. I am not a citizen. I cannot vote for change. I am a refugee from a land I’ve never left. A transient interloper politely asked to please move on. A shadowy figure on the edge of the scene who makes everyone nervous. I have been evicted, deported, delivered to lowest bidders. I have no right, under auspices of the language of law, to question my strictly defined disposition. My freedoms are restricted. My days consist of making the rounds on my P.O. boxes in various post offices to see if, for once, I have received any mail informing me of a positive change in my legal status. One day there was a certified letter. It was a summons but the name on the form was someone else’s. It was starting to happen. Even this inner sanctum of private delusion was occupied by aliens. 

4/6/25

poem

 Russian Doll

Nothing I do is my own

I’ve always just copied everyone else

Down to my accent, gestures and laugh

If you peek inside, there’s nothing there.

I made the mistake once of looking

Deep down and it was like an elaborate

Matryoshka doll trick a mean uncle 

Plays on you for your birthday.

Each box I opened contained a smaller one

And then a smaller one, you get the idea.

The last box, the smallest one, came 

Wrapped in glossy gold paper

As light as any professed faith. 

I hesitated before tearing it open

Feeling the hot snarl of his eyes

As he watched across the room 

Only to find it bone empty

Like a plundered Egyptian tomb.

Alas, this was the great trauma of my life

And I didn’t want anyone to know

So I closed it tight and thanked him

For his kindness and stowed it away

In the attic 

With all the old ribbons and dusty trophies.

Afterward I began to steal from others

All the things I liked

And gave them away as gifts.

Every box had something in it

And if they didn’t like it, fine,

It wasn’t even mine. 

4/6/25

poem

 The Best Thing

What if the best thing you ever did

Was a poem that, once finished,

You had to give away

Or was taken 

By whomever claimed it?

This isn’t it— don’t get excited.

All these words so far don’t count.

This isn’t the poem I was talking about.

The poem I am talking about

Lives in the recesses of unfinished

Sanctuaries where the hunted

Crouch behind blocks of broken granite.

No one thinks to look for it there

Which is why it feels so safe.

But that’s only a transition stage.

The one who knows it best 

Seizes it 

And carries it away to her lair

Where she finishes it and signs it

With a mashup of their names.

The AP wire service picks it up

And publishes it online 

Under the unverifiable byline

And it quickly goes viral.

It’s fair to say the whole world reads it

Not because they have to or want to

But because if you’ve made it this far

That's what you do. 

4/1/25

poem

 Aftermath

I stumbled upon the aftermath

Of a cataclysm I had missed.

Here, everything was in ruins

Hypoxic soils reeked of brine

I thought I felt rain but it was

Only the febrile oxygen sweating.

Yes, you could do whatever you wanted

And no one would stop you

But that’s never been what you wanted. 

It was a soundless landscape devoid

Of birdsong or waves crashing  

Or children laughing.

No one stepped forward to apologize 

For all this needless destruction.

There appeared to be no survivors.

I was afraid if I kept exploring this desolate land 

My path would lead to a cave in a desert

Where etched petroglyphs

On granite walls revealed the truth:

That I was the god once worshipped

By a daft, desperate civilization

And I’m the one they blame

4/1/25

poem

 Authenticity

A real poet is a poet

All the time

Not just while writing.

They shower in stanzas

And run errands

Down near the caesura.

Sometimes they love,

But mostly in metaphor.

Anyone who falls for one

Turns into a summer’s day 

Or a red red rose

Or a glass queen 

On the chessboard

He hides in his heart.

A doctor isn’t a real poet, either. 

It’s only when he writes,

White coat hanging on a hook,

Wife picking up the kids from practice.

He isn’t really a husband

Then, nor a father, nor surgeon.

He always has to choose one 

At the expense of another—

Equally deserving pieces

Forked by a wily knight.

After an operation 

There are a few moments of bliss

When he remembers he is nothing:

Neither poet nor doctor nor king.

He dictates his actions in prose

So there isn’t any confusion

And then the delicate game

Can start all over again.

4/1/25

poem

 Check Out Time

We wheeled our luggage to the hotel pool

After checkout like small coffins

Reminding everyone we all 

Have something to get back to.

Pale recent arrivals stared and tsked 

But we didn’t care, we had every right,

Our plane didn’t leave until later. 

We ordered drinks and read our books 

But got so hot sitting in the sun

We curled up inside our suitcases

Next to our still damp swimsuits.

Someone called the concierge for a porter 

Who carried us away

And buried us in the trunk of the airport shuttle.

3/31/25

poem

 Theodicy

Justice is for the earth. It loses its power in the scale of the eternal. As for right and wrong, it’s either now or never. This tiny sliver of human existence swaddled on both sides by an infinite darkness may have been filled with myriad unredeemed instances of inscrutable incommensurability and sadness and suffering and loss but in the grand scheme of things what does it matter? Anything divided by infinity approaches zero. Its light grows more and more indistinct. A tiny speck in the night sky, many light years away. You’ve moved on to the moon, who never complains. In the afterlife anything can happen, an infinite number of times. The guy in Ohio who ripped you off, fucked your wife and left you for dead? What happens when he’s in heaven too? Somebody whispers, maybe this is actually hell. Which means justice, in a way, prevails. But that doesn’t seem right, you say. Eternal punishment for the way I lived my short miserable life? That’s not fair!  You shake your fist at the heavens. This scene plays out over and over for a million years until one day you decide you don’t care. Or that no one is listening. You can’t even remember what you were so mad about. Heaven becomes a place where you are surrounded by strangers you’ve never wronged. Everyone here feels the same way about you. In the meantime you have to live until you’re dead. Yes, it's all based on nothing. Yes, it’s all made up. Yes, it’s a vast collective fiction. But here you are. Too fearful to do anything about it. Too proud to be like all the others. A Christ rejected by your generation’s Grand Inquisitor. Other than one or two like you, all that’s left are the masses of stupid true believers and the self-selected few, the cold blooded killers who see the opportunity that arises in the void of pointlessness. They write the rules and reap the benefits and everyone plays along. And so a long period of avoidable suffering ensues. The weak get exploited. The faithful are thwarted. The hopeful get so tired they decide to wake up.

3/27/25

poem

 Name Change

I went down to the courthouse to change my name. I wanted a new name. I was tired of mine, Jeff. It now sounded frowsty and old fashioned. I wanted a cool name again. Like Liam, Rowen, or Ryker. Or maybe Beckett. The lady behind the window made me sign a form and that was that. I was no longer Jeff. For the time being, nameless. But when I went to submit my new name she asked me for a bunch of corroborating documents that I didn’t have. I’m very sorry, she said. There was nothing anyone could do. She was simply following policy. Ok then, I said. Maybe I’ll track down all these stupid papers. Come back tomorrow. Just then, two large men in quasi-law enforcement uniforms appeared next to me and asked where exactly did I think I was going? Home, I said. Do you have any forms of identification? I pulled out my driver's license and they looked at me funny over the top of the card. This isn’t you, they said. And they were right. It wasn’t me. At least not anymore. I tried to explain that I was in a sort of a transition period in terms of identity, but they weren’t having any of it. But by now they had me in cuffs and a black hood and they led me to the back of a steel gray paddy wagon. On the way to the detention facility some guy in back tried to interrogate me for a while. The old fingernail extraction trick. The old waterboard treatment. But you can’t torture an truthful answer out of kindness. It will just tell you whatever it is you needed to hear. When we got to the facility I was hosed down and sprayed for lice. Handed a crude outfit made of rough canvas. A number was branded to my forearm and then I was directed to a cell on the third floor. Once the swelling went down I spent a few moments every night staring at my number. It’s not one I would have picked. Just a bland assortment of 8 random numbers.  Everybody in here has one. We go by each other’s first three digits because it’s too hard to memorize all 8. In here, I’m 772. I have a poker game every Thursday morning in the yard with 349, 901, and 635. Sometimes I see people in here I know from before. We always greet each other in silent gravity. It’s disrespectful to use our dead names. In any event, I don't think I’ll be here very much longer. I’ve found an escape route. Blowing this popsicle stand next full moon. When I leave here I’ll sear the numbers on my arm to an inscrutable black eschar. From then on, no name, number or mountain themed pictogram will ever capture my essence.  I’ll remain nameless. Numberless. Except to you. I’ll answer to whichever name you choose.

3/17/25

poem

 Insomniac

I hadn’t slept in days. My exhaustion was an oversized wool sweater in the middle of summer and I couldn’t reach the itch. When I finally woke I had no idea what time it was. Through my window I saw an orange sun, low hung, just above the horizon and the sky was a recently detonated fiery explosion. It was either dusk or dawn. East or west. I lacked all context. This wasn’t my room. And it wasn’t my house. I was afraid to pull down the covers. To turn on the lights. The only thing to do was wait, do nothing, wait for the sun to either rise or fall. Give it a few minutes. Find myself in darkness or a gathering light. Time always tells you the truth. Whether it's just beginning or if this was the end. 

3/16/25