Houseguest in Your Own Existence

Breathing reminds you of this—
You’re the overlapping set
Chain-linking body and mind,

What gets lived with what gets said,
An intersection, a slice
Inhabiting both at once,

Identical to neither.
You’re not yourself conjoined.
You’re the part that is conjoint.

So it’s a little awkward,
Isn’t it? You’re less diffuse
Than the global whole of mind,

Less constantly part of life
Than body, wandering off
In states of what you call sleep,

What you call unconsciousness.
You try to be on good terms
With this home your being’s in,

But you’re the house’s own guest,
And a stranger to the house,
And part of the house itself.

Pauses Between Hateful Tasks

Each day presents fresh ruins,
More crumbling, roofless stretches
Of potential prayer wall, cracks

Not yet stuffed with anything.
However massive the day,
However heavy the stones,

Days are ruins. They have gaps.
Pretend your goal is to pray
At all available gaps.

You know of two kinds of prayer.
Emptiness and poetry.
Can you fill all of the cracks?

Dipper

The light length shifts the balance,
Tips emotions like basins,
Like prospectors’ sifting pans.

In the long days, it’s daybreak
Feels more anticipated
And evening more reluctant.

In the short days, the reverse.
It’s subtle, though, just shifting,
Sloshing, feeling through the hours

To see what glints. Real events,
Responses to this process
Of living turn it over,

Dump it all, now and again,
And then there’s a barrenness.
And then there’s bottom gravel

With maybe a glint this time,
And days go back to rhythmic,
And the light matters again.

How Are You Even Alive?

Someone may ask someone,
Two friends joking around,
Mocking their bad habits,

But it is worth asking,
Not that there’s an answer—
Just so you remember,

Even science doesn’t
Understand exactly
How you are still alive.

Dying’s always shocking,
One way or another,
Slow or fast, it’s awful,

But you understand why.
It makes sense systems fail.
It’s eerie that life thrives.

Elan vital, the spark
Of life, the breath of God—
How are you still alive?

You Can’t Imagine This

Nor should you try, but you will.
Anticipation’s monkey
Hangs chattering on your back.

You will imagine this day,
What you need to do to win,
To get by, to meet some goals,

Which will spawn new goals, new
Challenges to imagine
Overcoming, new dreams—

Depending on temperament—
Of incremental success
Or miraculous escape.

So that you’re not too worn down
But not hopelessly locked in
Repetitive delusions,

You try to keep a balance
Between plodding practical
And fantastical. It’s hard,

Elusive as balances
Between moderate and drunk,
Well-fed and putting on weight.

You know it’s not for you, right,
Your craving to imagine?
Anticipation’s for life.