Deception’s Core Is Gravity

It’s wonderfully difficult
To extract much profundity
From the ever-lauded present,
But maybe those barren moments
Made of surfaces and shallows
Impervious to poetry
Betray the one thought this world knows.
Nothing’s beyond. Nothing’s below.

Wailing Cliffs

Understandably, peering
Into possible futures
By sifting through present pasts,

You expect seams of middens
In the mountains, just as now
You find seams of dunes with bones.

But along with the plastic
And compressed iron girders,
We expect we will be there,

Seams of language, seams of words,
Which means reams of stories, too.
There will be. Every corner

You poke your head in explodes
Into stories already.
You’ll leave the world stuffed with words

With prayers tucked into ruins,
Even if there’s no one left
Of you among us who reads.

Cultural Intelligence

Any drawing taking shape
Is a new monster forming,
But the monster you’re afraid

Of is the drawing that eats
Drawings. Drawings will not feed
The monster. The monster needs

You to feed it, to defend
It from losing its power,
Give it electricity,

Evaluate its drawings,
Feed it more of your drawings.
It was all always for you.