in the hospital by the slow drip
flooding her with various
psychotropic and medicinal fluids
that keep her
silent

by the arguments
of those he respects so much
that even when he thinks they are
dangerously wrong he
remains mute

by himself
distributing his anxieties
throughout his opinions
until they are so soggy with his doubt
that they choke

Suppression is everywhere
and it needs no jackboots
to spread
It can come softly or even 
sprout and cover us from within

Do the work.
Put in
time and discretion. 

Keep things simple,
but do not be afraid
to complicate things

if complication
is demanded;
create no less

or more
than is necessary.
Hold the work up

as a form of prayer
and if you have no God,
make the work a message

to the future — here’s
what I was, how
I saw things, maybe

it will help you. 
Or maybe you don’t
want to know?  Then

do with it what you will.
Let it wash over you
that all your making

may end up in a trashcan
some day.  Do your work
without regard for the result.  

Maybe you’re ready now;
maybe not.  Either way, snap to it.
It’s afoot, this game, this making.

Allow yourself to sink into it
and let go a bit, working with it.
It’s not up to you anymore. 

consider all of the people
currently in coffee shops
staring at white screens
waiting for their browsers to engage

as if those screens were horizons
concealed by fog
that will soon blow away
revealing adventures and destiny

ever notice how few of the people
staring at screens in coffee shops
ever look like they’ve found
their destiny

right now I am staring at a coffee shop
full of such seekers
and filling a white screen 
with my thoughts about them

I know I am thus
fulfilling my destiny though
I suspect I do not appear ecstatic
to anyone watching me

everyone quick — stare at others 
staring at others
try to discern their happiness
judge them if you don’t see it

and thus fulfill
at least a piece of your destiny
by assuming your perceptions
are an absolute truth

If only new people 
would stop being born
I could truly
abandon all hope,

but there they are —
everywhere I look,  
bomblets of possibility.
It seems a form of evil

to despair in their presence.
Damn their soft heads,
damn the time stretched out
before them, time I used to have.

Babies are contradiction
and affirmation at the same time.
If they’d stop being born, 
I could finally settle for darkness. 

Where’s the cat?
In the closet, plotting.

Her food, untouched. 
Her toys, chewed and discarded.
If a mouse walked by
drenched in tuna sauce,
she’d ignore it.   

I’m going to walk by the closet door
in seven minutes on my way to bed
and she’s going to charge and paw
my right foot, then stand there
looking up at me as if to say,

“yo, bright boy,
figure out why I did it.” 

I will sit with it
and sit with it.

I will sit with it
and sit with it.

I will sit with it
and sit with it

because I’m a bright boy
and I can’t help but wonder
about something as petty
as the cat
attacking my foot.

I don’t have any
unanalyzed fun, 
so why
would she?

Poems, poets, poetry!
I’m calling you out.
We’ve got a whole skeleton to pick.

Sick of your lessons and morals,
your loud slogans
about changing the world.

All I want from a poem now
is a shy approach; let it tug
on my hem.

All I want from poets is for them
to let their poems off the leash
and let them go where they want —

not every dog needs to hunt or herd.
All I want from poetry —
to feel against my hand

the nuzzling of an absolute,
necessary companion
who neither barks nor whimpers

but who would save my life
without question if I was drowning,
burning, falling, gone.

I thank whatever is wrong with me
for teaching me how to take
whatever goes right for me.

When I tunnel
the darkness
it heightens the light,

and I mourn so routinely
I explode with joy
at any unexpected grace.

I know how I appear to some,
how clumsy my stumbling life 
must seem to some;  laugh or rage

as you wish at that, as you see fit.
But all that poison you wouldn’t imbibe
I’ve drained and gulped,

and I dare say that because of that,
when the agony lifts now and again
I roar and grin and grin and win

where you might only smile.
I thank whatever’s wrong with me
for how I praise whatever goes right.

What have we ever needed weapons for?
Are we not dangers?  Are we not risks?

When we hear children laugh as they rape —
what have we ever needed weapons for?

Are we not dangers? Are we not risks?
When we weep at some of our murders, proclaim others —

are we not dangers? Are we not risks?
When we allow every flame its right to char and grill —

what have we ever needed weapons for?
When we creep for fun and shoot for bloodsport,

are we not dangers, are we not risks?
Once we admit we are weapons, massed for destruction,

what need will there be for weapons at all? May we just bow and end it there?
May we surrender our natures without danger, and thus end all risk?

what I would not give 
for some Provolone right now

smoky or not
sharp or mild

the only flavors that can take me
either to my grandmother’s Boston kitchen

or to a seat at a table
outdoors in Castello, in Venezia

depending on whether
I am feeling

wild or tamed 
when I crave it

depending whether 
I am yearning to be

wild or 
tamed