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,

lost.

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.

“Well, men,

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,

and confusing.

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

does much…

This is a game

whose rules change as you play.

Did you think I’d have answers?

Me, the fake-poet? I have none.

So fall.

Fall, fall down on your knees.

The buildings in this city

loom over you

like a monster.

So fall.

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…