I keep coming back with nothing
to say. I'll just keep coming back
for now.

as the final candle fades, look for new ways
to work around your missing pieces
until they are ready to be revealed

Reading About Bombs in the I.C.U.

sudden illness and sudden missiles
both cause sudden lack of balance
in light of sudden death's proximity

please sweep us safely with your golden wings
away from the shaking ground that opens
suddenly before gehenna and our frightened tears

unanticipated gratitude and a steady stream of sweetness
in small measure costs little but creates great delight --
search for ways to connect with love

in these short days and long nights
whether starlight or sunshine reigns o'er a moment
the air's positive charge longs to find its perfect home

The Ballad of 1 2 3 (Including Typos)

killed the dinosaurs. The same extinction event killed many
"Did they used to live on our side?"
very real. There, they love only in imagination.

"No problemo." He ripped the wheel, and they turned
which was no wimp, was on their left and gaining.
then fizzled out.

whenever she looked in his direction, she felt horrible
ate and violent turn. She pushed back and left the table
backward into the hall and said good-bye, making sure to

comb tied into the hair on the very top of his head, like a
behind them.
reading his hideous head.

labels, schedule, location, options:
preview post normal:
do not be distracted

sometimes curling soft beauty
is only distant cover for devastation
and chaos at close range

through slats and screens
sun shines and birds dance
a refreshing invitation

quiet sunlight sparks
newspaper cellophane
regardless of the certain death within

as new frustrations arise
so do opportunities to alleviate suffering -
instead, enjoy this cup of tea

on empty, all the extras
should be this good and ours,
primordial purity

plans for steam power
are almost entirely sung
which is really just a third-person

projected, spanned, paired
from a cheeky clone,
a gorgeous serrated atmosphere.

gentle and lovely
try to heal, cry and be present
with a heart broken in three

For Gay Talese

for a documentarian
hidden under these cards
a story never dies

post settings and labels
organized in flamboyant boxes testify
to one method of loving life

best not to begin with hubris
lest you spend your hours
needlessly suffering over inconsequences

the gates may have closed
but the kitchen window is open
to birdsong and breezy sunshine

Yom Kippur

awaken!
there are embroidered spades and broken sticks all around
that need your loving and grateful attention

photo by Stephen Bugno

Yom Kippur

nausea and headache hold still
the gates are closing soon
and our map is incomplete

our pens may be dry
but we still hold our pencils
to inscribe our names in your guestbook

location, options, labels
return us to clearheadedness
if we are reasonably diligent

it is the effort that is wanted
when you send your feedback
and we scribble our impermanent signature

Endeavor

on every corner in town
groups look up hoping
to share a moment

i thank you God for most this amazing

written & read by e.e. cummings

Rosh Hashanah

instead of a severed head
to accompany our blessed meal
spread a bed of tender greens

commit to ingesting less
death, and by this time next year
your heart will be lighter

Rosh Hashanah

hot wind sends unfriendly signals
but I know you are waiting with love
for my unready return

TMZ Found Poem

formally a suspect
towed from the scene
split the still friendly proceeds

on the market
who's missing bottoms out bikini
someone's made up stereotype

with a picture of a naked man's
sweet mini-human
AWWWWWWW!!! EXCLUSIVE!!! WORLD EXCLUSIVE!!!

by Denise Levertov

I need
more of the night before I open
eyes and heart
to illumination

hot water with lemon
and clutter cleared -
back to work

one red glass heart
one of cool grey stone
silver, gold, and clear quartz crystal

Blood & Fire

a cocktail of earnest spirit
and humorous irony
or an armor of soft padding

fertilizer for each fallen
seedlet in this summer meadow
where sentences are limiting

and only a broken crunch
of engines and keys
can close the breach

between my obvious heart
and yours,
unknowable

45.

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

 I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what black hours we have spent
This night! what sights, heart, you saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet longer light's delay.
     With witness I speak this. But where I say
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him that lives, alas! away.

  I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
  Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.

50.

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend
With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just.
Why do sinners’ ways prosper? and why must
Disappointment all I endeavour end?
Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend,
How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost
Defeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lust
Do in spare hours more thrive than I that spend,
Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakes
Now leavèd how thick! lacèd they are again
With fretty chervil, look, and fresh wind shakes
Them; birds build—but not I build; no, but strain,
Time’s eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes.
Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.

who is the raven
and who is the hawk
and who is the neighborhood sparrow

with dirty feet and spotted breast
tipping back beakfuls
which are drops of spilled coffee

A Midrash of Yael

 i.

Heber joined with Jabin -- against the tribe of our ancestors -- for profit. As a result of his alliance, we lived apart, near a solitary tree and a hasty road. Heber believed that Jabin was his friend, that we were protected. But when he traveled with the caravan, I was not safe.

Soldiers rode up to my tent, three or four of them, stuffed and ugly, waving spears and swords, demanding my hospitality. There was no one near to ward them off, and I learned that they were easier to satisfy than to resist. Satisfied, they wouldn't bruise me.

When Heber returned from his business, I couldn't tell him the truth. He had never cared for me deeply, we shared little, and he never stayed long. I was afraid he'd send me away, alone, and then what would I do?

ii.

At dusk he came to me, filthy and frantic. He had come to my tent before, but this time was different. He did not swagger as they usually did. He was wild-eyed, and he trembled. The aura of the battlefield was on him -- the dusty sweat and blood on his ankles, the furious madness. And somehow, the blood he tracked into my tent rubbed off on to me, and I was overcome by ferocity. I , too, became a soldier, and my tent, a battlefield.

But I was careful; I knew from painful experience that he could overpower me. I poured him fresh milk, assured him that he was a great warrior and a strong man, that he would never be defeated. I lulled him into a satiated sleep. But the more I soothed him, the higher my own blood was raised. By the time he snored, I was engorged.

As he slept, I drove my hatred through his damned head with all my might until he was dead. In that moment, I was stronger than 900 men. The peg and the mallet felt alive in my hand. Even the terrible crunch of his skull, the splat of brains and blood on my clothes and rugs did not bother me. I knew that Sisera had been sent to me to die.

There was no use hiding what I had done -- he was an important man, and I wasn't clever enough to conceal the deed. I had nothing left to lose. I beckoned the leader into my tent, saying, "Come, I will show you the man you are looking for." He entered, looked strangely at my face, and then saw the bloody corpse, sunken and staining my pillows. He whooped with joy! Laughing, embracing me, lifting and spinning me, he cried out, "Yael! Yael, savior of Israel!" The other soldiers rushed in to join, but it was only later, when I was brought to the tent of Deborah the Prophet, that I began to understand the consequences of my strange rage.

iii.

I've dwelt in the tent of Deborah ever since, though she rarely comes here anymore. In her old age, she lives in the city, far from the wilderness and the memory of battle. Sometimes she visits me after sitting under her palm of visions. Over tea, she entreats me to come with her to the city where there is comfort, security, and companionship. But I am comfortable and secure here, in this innocent tent. Colorful rugs cushion my steps; the wind, my neighbor, sings me to sleep; sturdy pegs remind me who I am. Alone, in a tent, is how I will die.

in memory, and also in life,
you are outside time's structure
-- as love is