You’re moving today, are you ready?
A new city, a new apartment.
Whose idea was this, anyway?
Well, plans, once put into action,
tend to have a momentum of their own.
So pack up your shit.
All this weird stuff that you forget about
that you own. Q-tips, and that dinner plate
that you never quite got around to using.
Old cat toys, and an ugly painting, watercolor,
that you can’t really bring yourself to throw away.
Everything packed? We ready? Good.
Now, lie down.
Lie down, in the center of your living room,
surrounded by boxes.
Imagine yourself as…
As a child, I attempted digging a hole to China. This was both easier and harder than it seemed. I was almost totally unsupervised as a child. After school, I would stay at the house of the family who lived down the street. I think there was something slightly weird about the family. (The house always intriguingly smelled of mold and cat pee.)
But you could do whatever you wanted there. There were many brothers and sisters in the house. (I myself was an only child.) In such a large family, you could get away with anything. We would have…
We were riding on a ship through the sea,
through icy waters,
An old-fashioned ship with masts.
We were searching for new lands,
new territories, but now we were lost.
The captain of the ship rubbed his sweaty brow,
and said, “Well, men, we’re in for it now.”
As best we could tell
we were now headed towards the North Pole,
the magnetic center of the world,
and endless circles of ice.
let’s just do the best that we can.”
My job was to be night-watchman
(someone has to do it,
for someone must always be on…
There are many possible reasons for what has happened.
You could, for instance, blame the internet, for one thing.
Or the fact that Trump was elected President.
There are so many reasons, in fact,
that they start to become blinding,
But I’m not sure that the reasons matter that much,
anymore, at this point.
Rather than looking for a reason, instead,
just say: “Well, this is where we are now.”
“So what do we do now, and —
“where do we go from here?”
This thing now exists,
and I don’t think now that debating it
This is a game
whose rules change as you play.
Did you think I’d have answers?
Me, the fake-poet? I have none.
Fall, fall down on your knees.
The buildings in this city
loom over you
like a monster.
Fall, fall down on your knees.
And swear to me
that you’ll be different,
that you’ll be better.
Lie to me, if you have to.
Fall on your knees.
(And hey, look, up there.
It’s the sky. That little patch of blue
just visible through the buildings
that you’ve forgotten all about.)
Fall, and swear, and promise me.
That you’ll be different, that you’ll be better.
Lie to me
if need be.
And then do it all over again.
Middle-age, and who am I now?
Grey hairs, and a tattered coat upon a stick?
Where is the man who thought he would die
an infamous writer, in a drunken car crash
at twenty-three? Key-rash, kaboom.
And like everyone I know — I feel hope eternally,
though I feel eternally twenty-three years old.
Eternity, complacency, and old age.
When did this all happen, anyway?
It’s like someone once said to me:
“You don’t get fat, it’s just one day,
your whole body just turns to fat.”
Not fat yet, but whispers of mortality —
white hairs in the stubble of…
“Fetch,” you say, but to what end?
But I know where the sidewalks tend —
Past streets and side-streets,
Past variegated trees
For peeing — and to the dog park,
With different breeds for sniffing.
But for what function, oh Creator?
Oh infinite supplier
Of chewy bones and squeaky balls,
Of Beggin’ Strips and Alpo?
My kibble bowl is full,
But my distant heart is empty.
“Good boy!” you say, but what is “good”?
Oh, my master, is truth good,
Or good true? And what is truth —
Quid est veritas?
Pompous Pilate said…
And then we learned that god was the sun,
After we died, before we were borne
Away, to a sylvan scene, where a Celestial goddess
Paced from place to place.
She was not complete, neither here nor there,
And when we peered through the angles
Of her golden hair, we saw
She was not real, just a port of air.
And then a solemn voice intoned
(With the solemnity that the moment owned),
Through the darkened wood, where the knots
Of trees shadowed and deepened pitch black,
Like the hidden spaces within a rat’s trap.
And ivy plotting with sinister…
Once upon a time, in Russia,
and this is a true story,
there was a little girl who could turn tennis balls
inside out with her mind (and this is a true story).
Scientists came and studied her, and the newspapers
wrote all about it. Her parents, quiet, stoic folk
(of peasant stock), were embarrassed by all the attention.
And they told their child not to be so silly,
that no one could turn tennis balls inside out with their head.
And she believed them.
And so she could never do it again.
Reality is what you make…