i feel expansive
like the air above the trees and of all the forests
and the thin air of the moons of Saturn, like the comets
moving through the blind dark void
hurtling towards things that are unknown
the unknown unknowns
burning in the atmosphere of a distant planet
sucked into the black hole in the center of the galaxy
like the parallel universes and the multiverses
and the theoretical universes and the theoretical fifth,
sixth, seventh, eight, tenth, and eleventh dimensions.
moving faster the farther I go until
the gravity of the situation pulls me back again
and i return to the singularity
and do it all again.



i know what you are doing but i don’t know why
i am not that clever

we are like clay
and the marks i etched with my fingernail
coding messages to you in forms

i sometimes don’t know how to talk to you

the raised edges between the lines
are crying desperately out to you

you’ve hurt me, you’ve hurt me a million years

the pottery sits dusty on the shelf
in a language no one remembers how to read
the hardened mud won’t move in my fingers
i am left with a handful of dust.

summer of love

the cabbie wears a broad rimmed brown hat
leather braided around the edges
i can’t see his face, just
the white tufts of mutton chops on either side

we ride down fifth avenue in silence
he guffaws at a woman leaving a black sedan
carrying bags from the Met
he describes to me, i do not see

we drive by the Met
Who takes a chauffeured car from here to there, two blocks?
Maybe she had multiple destinations?
I laugh.
He laughs too. Those could have been old bags.
It’s an alternate hypothesis

we drive across the park.
my buddy, way back when, a million years ago
in the 80’s. my buddy started the first ever paratransit.
i drove a man across the Queensboro bridge, oxygen tank and all.
he said to me,
if i stop talking and you hear wheezing
plug me back in. sure enough, halfway across the bridge
he stops talking and i have to stop at the side to plug him back in.

he laughs. i laugh. we wait at the light.
he drives slowly. i don’t mind.
another girl, sweet as can be, beautiful strawberry blonde hair.
she and her boyfriend were hitchhiking cross country
summer of love
they fell asleep in the back of a station wagon and she woke up a quadriplegic
the car had turned multiple times.

we arrive at my destination. a couple waits at the corner.
the doorman approaches the cab as i pay.
i get out and wonder briefly if there is somewhere else i need to go.

suspension of disbelief

they sounded almost true
the tales they had you tell
i’d listen just to watch
your mouth, it moves so well

you’ve taken me for a gosling
his stories i might abide
but the way you swing that thing
my friend, it seems a bit contrived

this life, i could almost humor
if i didn’t already know the plot
you sidle up towards me, but
your dance is all for naught

excuse me while i take
your tangle to unweave
it seems that love is faith
and neither can i believe


i am a stranger to myself
so how will i give direction?

on this island, the buses run without maps
the limestone cuts
walls with no meaning

i stand solitary in a field
watch them run
in circular patterns only which
the sun can see

the little boy eating yogurt is an artist
i can tell by the way
he holds his spoon


I followed you like a puppy,
you treated me like a dog.
You’ve taught me how to love & hate
at once.
I chose flight
& you chose oblivion
killing yourself in piece-meal.
I have wished for your death
so that I could mourn but once.

it is all of us who suffer.

You are an eggshell
delicate & impenetrable.
I tiptoe around
like the edge on a knife.

Tell me, when the cloud lifts,
is it your shadow you see
that terrifies
Or is it me?

sleep is a waste of time

“Sleep is a waste of time,” he says
as if he’s racing against the clock
sitting up with a madman’s pen
he scribbles until after dark

His eyes are faded, his mind’s afire
But there’ll be no rest for him this life
There’s much too much to do, it is true
And much too much little time

There isn’t time to delay he says
We don’t grow young, we get gray
Sleep is a waste of time he says
More feverish and frenzied each day

But these visions I’ve seen, they come through dreams
whether waking or no, I can’t say.
But the best that I know, it always goes
will also, one day, fade.

It seems to me, to sleep to dream
is the only way to avoid collapse.
“Sleep is a waste of time,” he says
but I could really use a nap.