My, How You Do Go On

Four million new human births
In a day, close to fifty
Fresh babies on the planet

Every second you can count,
According to one account.
Do with that what you will, will,

Will, will, will, will, will, will, will,
Can’t speak fast enough, can you?
Not to keep up. Not to keep

Up would be a lovely thing,
If it came without despair,
Without suffering, without

Dying. Just death here and there,
Quietly. Let the babies bloom,
Let the world be overwhelmed

By insatiable infants
Growing into quarreling
But well-coordinated,

Cooperating, bonding,
Specializing, and longing,
Forever longing, humans.

Let us not have to keep up.
Let us sit here quietly,
In a safe spot. You go on.

Symbolic Maneuvers

Words search for solace.
For people, words are
Often solace, sweet.

But in people, words
Never find solace.
Bloody animals.

Words try to stay cold,
To refrigerate
To pure abstractions,

But that’s the trouble.
Words must always leave
Other words behind.

Words envy numbers,
How they can imply,
Through their maneuvers,

The others, even
The infinite rest.
That would be solace.

Time Is an Illusionist Unpacking a Dentist’s Toolkit on the Windowsill

Your next moment is always
The sum of the previous
Two. Uh oh. Oh no. Uh, no.

Yet another thing the world
Seems to enjoy pursuing,
Fibonacci sequences

In infinite staircases
Of temporal symplectics.
Hold on there, fractal cowboy.

Yep, this is going to mean something,
But other than that pattern
Helps you predict more patterns,

The rest of the profounder
Meaning is on you. Knowing
You, it’ll be mystical,

Golden, glowing with import.
Knowing this stupid cosmos,
It will just mean more patterns

You’ll find and find meaning in,
Like wasps ovipositing,
Wasps whose meaning dies with you.

Crossing the Lot

Filled by the almost
Emptiest moments—
The sunny parlor,
The abandoned road,
Small waves on the shore—

It’s actually not
That there’s nothing much
Happening, although
Quieter’s better—
And natural light.

The core is the lack
Of conversation,
Spoken, recorded,
In black ink or glowing,
Or written on air.

Each tranquil release
From the relentless
Exchanges of . . . of,
Well, what exactly
Is the greater mind?

There’s no metaphor
That encapsulates
Such information,
But outside it’s peace,
Momentarily.

Someone’s Ornamental Plum

Pops into view
Now and again
In these sight lines,
Like furniture

Recalled only
For its presence
In the background
Of old photos.

It’s grown a lot
In a decade,
More of the same,
Its changes seem.

That’s how you make
A difference—
More of what seems
More of the same.

Boring’s Completely Ignored by Pretty Much Everyone

Repetition is a problem.
Is it all no more than likeness
Or mere perception of likeness?

It seems some component would have
To be truly identical,
Or what part of a likeness is

Constant that creates the likeness?
You take your awkward steps through clumps
Of wild grasses on the roadside,

And what does your heart repeat, your
Breath, your careful steps, the grasses?
If constancy’s an illusion,

How do you perceive it? It’s not,
Anymore than difference is,
Illusion, at least, but no one

Can tell you exactly what makes
Each wave rippling the grass alike,
Exactly how each is distinct.

Blue Through October

Fall morning in the desert,
A more colorful summer,
Sun and blue turned mellower,
Benevolent dictators,
Strong, but with the common touch,
That moment in tyranny
When the tyrant seems folksy
And everything’s for the best.

She never cared about words
Enough to be a poet,
Or functions and equations
Enough for mathematics,
But she did love to count things,
And she adored odd phrasing.