Null Pointer


We spoke yesterday of nothing.
Today the silence resonates and decays in an instant.
I haven’t eaten a thing in hours . . .

I walked here. My ankle throbs.
Every beating heart in this vast place goes on
of its own ulterior motive.
I could die here . . . or anywhere.

There are so many things that I will never say.
People continue to move in obscure patterns
oblivious to all the strange and beautiful
thoughts around them dancing, energetic, luminous
yet invisible perhaps forever . . .

I can’t decide.
Some days every bit of food tastes like
a vague, fleshy wetness if not an artifice
of flavor and texture.
I only know that I want something
but not anything . . .

Some stories cannot be told
because we’d destroy our capacity
to live and flourish if we believed them.

I had to tell you that I was thankful
(in so many words) before I left that day
even if you didn’t understand me then.
But later at home
I ate in silence.


I destroy everything I touch
(and all I don’t) by exhausting
their latent meaning. The stories
are all that I possess
until I’ve forgotten how they began.

I can mesh your mind with nonsense
if you consent. Nothing’s more clear
as a method of escape–death,
a dissertation on love
and survival.

Biology asks us to believe in beauty
as life-giving (and a crucial flaw.)
Nothing we can devour. A breathless
flourish. Evasive . . .

I have no power.
Words begin and end of their own
volition. I’d wish you all well,
but I’ve always been hidden.

( . . . and the narrative chases
me down again. and again.
and again.)

Ode to Failure?

Superlative, anxious falter, how you grace me:
You, the irons in my ambitious fire, thrust deeper
than sorrow into the furious embers;
You, the undetectable fracture in love;
You, the tidal moaning over the graves
of causes deferred.

The silence elongates you, unfurls you
into a shivering frailty. How heavy
your notes. How seizing
your melody.

When the whole world opens wide, I
close my eyes. How alone.
However, your immediate chasm
does not swallow, only invites a root.

I am not a tree, a fist from one plot.
I’ll hide from the sun when I need a reprieve,
but the horizon is still mine to bend.

Contemplative Moorings (A Reject From My Book of the Same Name)

Like two islands that reach out of their isolation
and capture one another in an eager pose
above the tumbling currents, we leap
all reasonable stirrings of a particular moment.

Whose rocks tower over us, we do not break.
We are nested in their salty crevices
echoing through the thunderous wave breaks
with a curious fear.

To inhale: to dream.
A potency: a gleaming blue.
The sun sets on the old world.

And the canopy of stars is no longer an illusion
but a fertile anchor upon the wild seascape.
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In the greatness of our fallen ambitions,
that one fertile rift,
      soil from stone,
agrees to the flourishing of bladed tufts,
a patchwork of cautiousness,
      optimism as tenderness,
the soul reborn from decay . . .

Empathy prohibits an examination
of survival, consciousness, all the
thrashing beauty in
a breath.

. . . every ripening hour is devoured
all the same.


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I’m afraid of forever
that impossibly distant roar of time,
the call to vacancy: everything
must pass . . .
And the tremors feel more real to me
than my (passing familiarity with)
contentment (i.e. hello. –or perhaps
in a miraculous twist, a more familiar
admonishment to stay . . . )
In either image
(every choice, a refraction of a simple
trick of light–) we struggle on to
the very end and/or subsequent
(–As the vibrant undulations of the soul
reach out, back to the starlight
that made them.)
Like cascading water that foams into
a mist, the future both rises
and falls away . . .