“Stand on the corner,
you depressed bastard,

and wait. If you signal for it
joy will find you, certainly.

Certainly it’s only missing you
because you’ve made yourself

so small.  It’s as if you’ve shrunk
from what normal looks like.

Stick a hand up, make yourself
bigger, you sad beggar, and 

call joy to you. It’s not like
it’s going to come without that.

It’s not like you should expect it.
You, depressed. You, stunted. 

You, the one who won’t do 
what you’re supposed to do 

under illusion that this is not
under your control — call up

joy like a taxi
and get on board…”

so I did, and when I did
it missed me. Drove right by

and I nearly drowned 
in the puddle it almost splashed dry.

You know what? My arm is still up.
I’m still waiting — soaked through

but still hanging on for joy — though
God only knows why.

Sixty-two degrees in late October
feels cold in the house,
unseasonably warm outdoors.

Stay outdoors until dusk 
and as the temperature descends
you choose to go back inside

where the temperature has risen
to a stifling sixty-eight degrees.
You open a window, just for

a few minutes, you tell yourself,
just to moderate what the sun did 
to your home while you were gone.

Now both indoors and outdoors
are in your house. Indoors echoes
with outdoor traffic, outdoors the neighbors

can, if they choose, attend to
your indoor music, smoke, and
inane conversations. You will shut

the windows before bed and call that
the end of the day, the reset moment
that reaffirms the distance between you

and that family sleeping rough
in the encampment down the street
who are permitted no distinction between

indoor and outdoor, private and public.
The noise and the cold are always there.
Home is a tarp and an abutment

and they are always well aware
of what the neighbors think.
You’ve thought it yourself

as you pulled your sweater tight
and closed yourself off: brrr…it’s getting so cold.
I’d hate to be them. That must be awful.

A toothache
premonition
wakes him up
far enough ahead
of the morning alarm
that he has to decide
if it’s worth trying for
more sleep. He chooses

to return to bed and begin
trying to recall a time
before such bodied fear
became so common,
back when insurance and salary
were daily givens.
The time before cost
in lost attention and time
(and of course the money)
meant this much, before

just lying in bed wondering
what devastation this might cause
if it becomes more
than just a transient pain.
If it’s real and not just
an anxiety stabbing him
in his most densely packed
bag of terror. 

Not long after,
he gets up. Makes coffee,
drinks coffee, skips breakfast,
considers his work schedule,
forgets the pain, remembers
the pain, forgets the pain,
remembers the pain,
stops remembering the pain;
never quite manages
to forget the pain.

Suppose we allow
for the likelihood
of a single God. 
Suppose we say
to deny the possibility
is to be arrogant
on behalf of
our own total agency.
Suppose we say
one and only one
can be real. Suppose
we ask ourselves to 
choose among the 
many faces we’ve assigned
the One. Suppose
we cannot decide. 
Suppose we revisit 
the initial thrust of
the argument and say,
maybe more, maybe none,
but something. Suppose
we agree it matters
not — one, many, none —
until something confirms
one, none, many
to such a degree that
all of us agree to hold 
no grudge against it
if there are many, none,
one. Suppose we leave
the density of the arguments
behind that day. Suppose 
we find other reasons 
to be as we have always been.
Suppose it matters not at all
if there is none or one
and the only thing that ends up
being of importance is
what we are: many or one,
or soon enough none:

what then?

1.
It’s not like 
I made a good mark,
but more of a scuff — a sign
of clumsiness, accidental
reminder of my passage,
just squeaking through.

2.
Here lies (blank)…
if you are reading this,
clearly I am not
for if I could 
I’d be editing frantically
to keep you from seeing
such a paltry representation
of who I am.

3.
This plot holds
a parcel no longer full of lies,
a bone-box stripped
of spirit. It’s not worth
your time.  Nothing to see,
nothing to hear.

If you do see 
or hear anything, rest assured
it’s nothing. 

4.
If I had become wind
and you were still you,
I’d choose to be here.

If I’d become sun
and you were still you. 
I’d choose to be here.

I’ve become dead. I am here, 
but not by choice —
unlike you. I thank you for it.

To wake up
is to unwind the black snake
from my chest.

To stand up 
is to set the black snake aside
and see it race away.

To walk to the living room
from the bedroom
is to step past the black snake.

To leave the living room
for the world
is to sing the black snake to sleep.

To return to the house
when the world has pressed upon me
is to lift the black snake to my chest.

To sleep in the house
with the black snake upon me
is to become the black snake.

To dream of the black snake
is to dream of myself pressing upon my heart
until it enters utter stillness. Suddenly

I am
the black snake,
racing away.