Love, like light, has no mass, is information. Not that which is found in books, newspapers, sacred texts: Suns laugh at our quest for knowledge. Imagine a poem with no beginning or end, no author or reader, words or meaning—
What momentary peace in the yard!--The peach tree straining under the weight of its fruit, the sound of water giving itself to gravity. I stir my coff
Jeff Bezos did not leave the planet any better than he found it, though he is rich enough to leave it and return, alive. As I watch the skies, greedy mosquitos stalk me like a herd of tiny buffalo.
My early poems aspired to Keats and Blake; were about magic, dreams, and heartbreak. Most rhymed, were trite, and told more than showed; rolled off the tongue, no taste of the acid down below.
Tonight I'll dream that a colony of ants has dragged me out to sea, where I discover my belongings and I have become so much flotsam and jetsam.
I want to smash a violin on the tree it was made from. To soak up the blood of martyrs with my eyes, die a glorious death and live on, weeping, sweating blood. It's 118 in Siberia.
I had a dream where from an impossible height I took in all the splendor and all the pain we’ve learned to live with.
What is left after the groceries are put away? Dishes on the drying rack, nothing to clean: all is as it should be, or so they say.
In this white-capped wind / a kite can fly a lifetime / never touching earth
On a drizzly morning walk I stopped to let a hearse go by, its pitch-black paint sweating polish, and as I waited for the procession I thought about who profits from tragedy, the business of loss, and who profits no matter what,
In Xinjiang, 7,000-miles away, a morning sun, reflecting off the glasses of early risers, the windshields of commuters, is so bright as to redact last night’s graffiti: Down with Xi.
If life is a lucid dream or some near-perfect computer simulation, do I risk waking up to a world in which I can’t embrace you?
