Words Are Rats

We love the wisdom of foolish lives,
Pithy, sage advice from those who died
Young, drunk, or in debt, unholy wrecks,

And we should, absolutely we should—
Not in hopes of emulating them,
But to gnaw the stored-up foolishness

Of all wisdom. When someone’s quoted
Whose life was admirable, it fools
People into thinking words shaped life.

We don’t shape lives. We run parallel.
We hitch a ride. The one way we’re wise
Is to ditch life when it sinks to hell.

Remontant Poems

Bloom some roses. Wither. Bloom
Some more, the new ones blooming
Over the fruits of the first.

Not many wild rose species
Blossom so profligately.
Most stay summer flowering,

Enough for a few bouquets—
Fewer petals, richer scents.
But you’re an odd cultivar,

Rosa multirugosa,
Wrinkled, immune to salt tears,
Blooming as fast you can,

Over and over again,
Growing feral from neglect
On the cliffs sprayed by the waves.

Poster Boy

James Dean, Hollywood icon,

Who starred some decades ago

In a few notable films

Then crashed his little sports car

To die young and beautiful,

Was once quoted as saying

That the pleasure was all in

The doing, not the results.

Well, except for the crashing,

Right? Not much pleasure crashing

To a death with good results.

What do you think you’re doing,

When you give out opinions?

Life’s nothing much but doing,

And always the same results.

Well Out of the Way When the Reckoning Comes

We travel. We travel well.

One meant to move in straight lines

By regular reckoning,

Became too calculating,

Got hung up on summing up,

Sunk in consideration,

Turned up on the other side

Of the world, as casual

As you please. Might as well play

It to the end, whaddaya

Reckon? It’ll keep moving,

As we all do. It will mean

Something else again. The wisps

Of all the places it’s been

Will cling to it. Consider,

However, you won’t be here.

By the time the meaning turns

Again, you’re out of the way.

The Biting Dance

Cookies and multivitamins
For breakfast—there’s no cereal
On the shelf, no eggs in the fridge,
But there are leftover cookies,

A little stale. They’ll have to do.
Stores will open later—neither
You nor the supply chain is yet
Completely broke. Somewhere, children

Are drinking puddled rainwater.
Herodotus noted victims
Of a siege held thousands of years
Ago boiled leather for their meals.

Bodies keep going while they can,
And then fuel others once they can’t.
Be glad for your stale cookies, kid.
Every bite’s a step in the dance.

Lizard Court

Someone knows where they go
At night when it gets cold,
Months when it’s always cold.

Humans proliferate
Specialized expertise
Like quilled creatures sport quills—

Some herpetologists
Specialize in lizards
And know just where they go.

In desert spring, they show
Back in the sun again,
Like magic, the lizards,

Strutting weak-limbed push-ups
And flashing turquoise streaks,
Wandering up the walls

Of the little courtyards
Where they court and hold court,
Territorial beasts.

This spring, one’s got a strange,
All-white skullcap, snowy
Blank head. Surely some bird

Will take a stab at that
And not, mistakenly,
The detachable tail.

For now, the white head holds
Center stage on cement
And is the last to scare,

The last to disappear
Once the sun goes down, but
Will he be here next year?

Nights Blossoming the Falling-Petalled Past

A succession of ages,
Each foolishly believing
The succession of ages

Is declining. Now and then,
A demented age sports faith
In the triumph of progress.

Those beliefs never last long—
Enough things start to go wrong
In any age to knock them down.

Other ages, some places,
Settle for eternity,
Change as pure cyclicity,

But then the season they choose
To believe is the current
Is always the last yuga,

The Kali age before things
Turn the wheel to get better
And start blossoming again.

If there’s any decline here,
It could be from no ages
To some ages, but don’t tempt

Yourselves with any Edens.
The world opens what’s inside
To say hello then goodbye.