Thought of the Day

What you notice about the world will never match your recollections of beauty. I am surprised every day by warmth and light and distance. When I awaken in the night and everything is the same, I search for the one out-of-place imperfection. Even if I am afraid, I am content.


Life as a Refutation

You’ll go anywhere and anyhow
in an eruption of footsteps
or in a subtle slough of motion.
Your ambition estranges crowds
from language and makes hegemony
seem like a quaint custom.

You, the diamond crashing through
glass, the voracious appetite in
a pillar of stone, the crush of
oxygen from an endless sky.

Now or then
even as time itself expires
every grain of nothing in the void
You . . .

(I redrew the landscape.)
The trees are tufts of green.
Blue streaks flock to the emerald
sea. I awoke in a nest
of accusations–

I am myself (no matter the ends;
How far away can one go
before one is alone?)

Advice on Living a Good Life

Only take advice from people who have lives that you wish to have yourself.

If you believe the statement above, you shouldn’t listen to yourself. And so, if you think you should listen to me, you shouldn’t. And if you don’t take my advice, you should have taken it after all. So, listen yourself. However . . .

A paradox? To paraphrase Gödel: every bit of advice is either inconsistent or inadequate. You get yourself tangled and knotted in life whatever your intentions may be.

Like gravity, what weighs us down also gives us air to breathe.

The Art of Being Wrong

Questions have answers, and beliefs, their doubts.
Philosophies, on the other hand, kill themselves.
They speak above their station, die in their own shadow.

Let’s rectify our indecision
by devouring more opinions,
talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, until
the collected syllables collapse
into a clamor that nothing
can escape.

Or just fail by the book–
line by line–dust in the margins
–forever ago forsaken–revivified
to run a rigorous tornado at
eager senses.

Take my advice: Forget the words;
Sweep the pretensions under the rug;
Strip every sentence of its interlocking parts;
Orate with effervescent freedom.

Noise comes. Noise goes. It grinds
itself out unto oblivion.
The only true thing
is silence.


Reality is paper-thin,
exposes us like an unmade bed. Eyes
puncture every surface and ray of light.
Yet fortunate are we
that the world enamors itself so

that no one notices our wounds.
( . . . a darkness spoken
only in heartbeats.) I’ll keep
the secret, swallow it too,
if it keeps me holding onto you.

The Illusion of Drowning


I can recall very little of myself from before the age of fourteen, as if my life before then no longer belongs to me. Is this merely a curator’s decision or the murky aftermath of some alteration? Perhaps–

I am a child again, a time when you can feel like your breaths are not enough no matter how much oxygen you take in–

Motion never seems adequate; exertion, a fantasy of betterment. If I were sprinting through deep water, I’d know no boundary more intimately.

–Perhaps I will never comprehend innocence and what it siphoned off. (An ocean of me might never explain it.)

Let me no more beg for pieces of myself.
Mercy like glory fades.–and I will not
allow myself to be lost
in the undulating


Anxious as a mountainside,
Slow as a crashing galaxy,
Lustful as simmering steel,
Memory . . .

The catalyst against the eye:
On the halting horizon,
I overcame the image;
What I said then
Was lost to comprehension.

(The last star burst into birth.
We will extinguish
Before its light might ever
Wash over us.)

. . . I am
fascinated by the darkness
that it will burn away.