you’ll be killed by a dumb man
who doesn’t know what he’s doing, or why
and he will rule the world

it won’t be good, because good
is smart and smart is an
aberration to god

the king of man must be lied to
for at seeing the truth would
tear out his own eyes

even love, as beautiful as it is,
lives in the moat of the
stupidest castle in the land

it must live there else it
be devoured by all the retarded
senselessness of each passing minute

a stubborn boy, i thought i’d live
to eat each fruit but now i
wretch loudly throughout the jungle

it’s too sweet, i don’t know
maybe poison in the last one
feeling very drowsy now

i guess i don’t know how you hunger
and it may be that i never really will

when i said you’d eat the eiffel tower
from a place where that idea
seemed dumb, i’d not known i, too
one day would want to, in a way,
consume things as well, of a similar substance

too similar to obviously
discern the difference

i mean,
i want to say it’s different
but i don’t know that it is

because i woke up with you
in my head today feeling like
i selfishly wanted every thing that i could
see all for myself and no one else

and i don’t care why

so maybe i should have
listened differently or
you should have
explained yourself better

or i should have explained
you better to myself

oh well, either way
as pain builds strength
so too does
being wrong build wisdom

i am used to missing the
mark, after all

but it’s not about me

the mountain is not a metaphor
but a mountain made of rocks
as you are made of rocks as
rocks are states of energy
seemingly stagnant but a
story an infinite number of
pages long with letters too
tall for you to read.

the mountain is a letter too
tall for you to read in an
infinite story and appears
to be made of rocks as
you are made of rocks are
not a metaphor but just
differing states of energy.

give them no quarter
in your mind and run them
out. remain at a distance
of at least 6 feet, for to
prevent the virus from
passing. take on the mountain
alone, or with trusted few.

this is all there is.

run them out, and give them
no quarter in your mind.
keep at a safe distance
of 6 feet for to prevent
the virus from passing.
climb the moutain alone,
or with trusted few.

there is no more than this.

the devil
lives in my mind

and you can bet on that, as sure
as the tide stays at bay

and you can even set your clock to it

and I won’t die, no
that’s too good for me

i will see the virus wear me as a mask

so sad that i am afflicted
by this virus of the mind
and i don’t know how it
will end
but i know how it began

the truth
makes an uncomfortable chair

He never understood
that tears on her face
didn’t mean torn umbrella
and sometimes when she called
she just wanted to talk
to somebody

steel pulleys dragged the flag
to half staff and clattered
against it in the wind
shouting like horseshoes
glancing off a spike
in a sand pit and
I wondered for a moment
about what almost counts for

It could have been
yesterday
if I had let it be
but I didn’t
and look at us
now

I’d wrap you up
if I could tonight
like a child
against the cold
and hold you
through the sunrise

at least I’d feel
a little better
then

But you’re probably
better
off

I burn my guts
with gasoline
and render them
to mush
every evening
with bright
blue lights
in my eyes

A fit of foolishness
has found them
at the bottom of
a deep dark well
and I can only hope
this fit of arrogance
will get them out again

I remember ever scratch
on my parents’ dining table

I can see if I close my eyes
the chipped veneer
on my father’s end

the puncture from a project
by my middle brother
in the summer of ’03

I can feel my quiet frustration
at the grain not aligning
in the center
when the leaf is out
and sheer annoyance
that the lines don’t match
even when it comes out
of the closet in the hall

Ever stacked with clean towels
government paperwork
off-brand Tupperware full
of different kinds of cookies

a bag of fresh fruit even
within a few days of the market

and wonder at the dinner
that it could have held
but for a global pandemic
and a quarantine order
from the Governor
that won’t let up ’til May

I have heard
that the changes made
to our ecosystem are
irreversible
or they will be
in a decade or two

But the seas will only boil
after all the polar ice
has melted away

‘pity me’
he whispered in a heap
sobbing on the flagstones
as she looked on
unamused

‘I do’
she responded
and her fingers snapped
and hot fire sprung forth
to engulf him

he shrieked and flailed
with all his might
but in the end
there was only ash left
as she walked back inside
and drew the blinds
behind her

I arrived unsaved
on the wide steps
of your temple
where I begged mercy
in the dark of night
and I wailed,
oh I wailed,
to all the saints
or spirits
that would listen

when I woke at dawn
covered in dew
and dust and bruises
I found my prayers
answered:
no saint had left
notice and no spirit
made its mark so
I departed unsaved
into the wilderness
wailing to the sun instead

Stasis doesn’t stop time
the earth revolving the sun
consuming its fuel ever nearing
supernova

every shop is closed
the stark contrast of meaning
is thrown in our faces
but stasis doesn’t stop time

wrestle with your annuities
and despair in the gaze of God
as the milky way spirals ever closer
to oblivion

Wash away the salt and sand
from a long hard winter
that seemed to never end

but it does
and in the cold spray
and harsh wind of early
April I know peace

Soon we will be together

And I looked in to the distance
and I was not afraid
for the sun shone as bright
as it ever had in my youth
and the darkness that came after
was no darker than I’d remembered

Everything is  50 percent perfect
in this floating point in time

but for a set of sifting proxies
we’d be more than halfway

Monumental Artifice is a cruel thing
it seems

it feeds its fear
as a child at a river
with a bag of stale bread

and we must choose to consume
and be consumed

or starve
and let die our other half

The dust from our grinded bones
would settle in neat piles
under the chutes of great machines
rattling away through the night
to distill us in to the parts
best worth consuming
and my only hope, then, would be
to take the sickness with me
through each infernal mincer
over every hellish gear, so
by the time they found infection
it would bee too late for them
and they would suffocate inside
their own retched throbbing lungs
as the world spun fast enough
to fling them in to space
to die
the rest of the way

(Today is the first day of National Poetry Month)

I stood on the top of a snow mound
at eleven, hands without gloves
cold from the climb and face red
in the late afternoon light and I
watched as three boys made their ways
to the top where we would grip one
another and try with might and leverage
to cast each other down the mound
to hold the peak for a few seconds more
until another challenger summitted and
made their case to reign supreme but
not one of us had gloves and most of us
had rides home coming but I had walked
to school that morning so I would last
until the final bus had pulled away and
I would rule a minute more until my
beet-red hands started hurting