Sitting Quiet in the Dark Cave; or, Long Names For Short Poems

"Ambiguity is always tossing to curiosity what it seeks, and it gives to idle talk the illusion of having everything decided in it."

--Martin Heidegger, Being and Time (trans. Joan Stambaugh)

Day again night again day again night,

and none hits the eye but the pure play of light;

the current that flows meets the gate of the Now,

and though we see chaos there’s order, somehow.

The double-talking shadow spinner sits in the dark

with eyes on the ground and a stone in the hand.

The magic stone’s thinking and leaving its marks

while ghosts flutter round and so scatter the sand.

He tells himself riddles and likes to be clever,

“It’s only a stone that can make the earth green,

you see that’s the matter in making a scene:

if you’d move the earth, well, you’d best have a lever.”

He chuckles and weeps and he says they’re the same

(it’s only the saying that gives it a name),

and if one would laugh while he sits in a cave,

it’s only the body, for all minds are grave.

Sappy; or, Sticky

Shining in the morning

with a thousand lesser lights,

see Venus glow in warning

among the fading brights.

I want to love you

the way I love the piece of gum

that I can’t get off my shoe.

Catch the dizzy sun that rises

to birth the world anew,

and the flower’s sweet disguises

so the bees know what to do.

I have a runny nose,

and I want to love you

the way I love my box of tissues.

The northern geese go flying

to warm lands far away,

and though new lights are dying,

they’ll last another day.

I want our love to drag on forever,

like the second half of Peter Jackson’s

The Fellowship of the Ring.

A little piece of heaven

comes down into the world,

but by the tick of seven

its banners come unfurled.

Do you think you could be like

that icky corporate pop song

that gets stuck in my head all day?

We could be the maggots

that squirm in the bowl of guacamole

that you left in the fridge too long.

We could be a dirty joke

that only gets worse

every time you tell it.

We could read books on psychology

and analyze each other

in perfect cognitive dissonance.

Doesn’t that sound nice?

A Piece of Obvious Satire with No Confessional Aspects Whatsoever

Tell me more about why I should feel guilty.

Tell me more about systemic inequality.

Tell me more about how I can’t understand or even empathize

with other people because I don’t share their experience.

Tell me more about how being male

(sorry, very sorry, I meant being a man),

being white,

being straight,

somehow makes me so powerful

that my simple inaction

is a force of oppression.

(Wouldn’t that be lovely?

I sit and imagine it, sometimes,

oppressing people in my sleep,

or causing suffering while I eat my corn flakes,

passively feeding into repressive regimes of power

while I waffle around on Netflix and end up not

watching anything because it took me too long

to decide what to watch.)

You’re too kind, really,

when you tell me why I should feel guilty.

It’s not that I don’t want other people to suffer,

it’s just that you make it out like I’m some kind of super-oppressor,

and I haven’t earned that yet.

I appreciate it, really—you’re always so very nice.

But my ego isn’t so fragile

that I can only put up with myself

by imagining myself at the top of a pyramid.

Much as I appreciate it,

it’s really not necessary.

It’s not that I’m wrapped up in self-loathing,

so that the only way I can love myself is by hating myself.

It’s not that I’ve so internalized every bit of guilt

I’ve ever been offered, to the point that I could never be good

so I try to imagine myself enjoying the role of supreme evil.

It’s not that I feel so little power over myself

that I can only survive

on delusions of omnipotence.

It’s not that I blame things on others

(though I appreciate your contribution)

so I can escape this constant sense of guilt.

It’s not that I’m afraid of everything,

and that I’m overwhelmed by the wrongness of the world.

It isn’t any of those things.

It’s just what it is, you know?

At least it won’t last forever.

A Poem About Numbers

If one could know just how to sneeze,

or find it close enough,

they’d see how flowers charm the bees,

and other lovely stuff.

Though one is much like two, they say

(at least the ones who count),

it’s never just a numbered day

or simply an amount.

For if you get to three you find

that you’ve climbed high indeed;

if three is one within the mind,

how hard is thought to read?

And after that comes five, you see,

the fifth one on the path,

for if a will is truly free,

it’s free for faulty math.

The tenth thing that I have to say:

I find it very odd

that numbers between numbers play

within the mind of God.

And doubled up inside a cup,

deferring to my betters,

imagine, they’ve made numbers up

just scribbled out of letters!

So look at that nice letter e:

I heard it from my dog

that it’s somewhere ‘twixt two and three

and written on a log.

These numbers don’t make any sense,

at least no more than words.

Though I don’t wish to give offense,

I say they’re for the birds.

Silver Linings, Silver Linings Everywhere!

The world might end tomorrow,

but at least you won’t have to worry about fixing that leaky faucet.

Somewhere in the world,

right now,

there’s a group of people

having more fun than you will ever have

in your life.

But they’re gonna die someday,

and so are you.

Everyone you know

is part of a massive worldwide conspiracy

to forget your birthday.

But you don’t remember their birthdays either,

so it’s all good.

You’ll probably never understand

the first thing

about what’s really going on in the world.

But neither will anyone else,

so if you act like you know what’s going on

people will believe you.

Some people won’t like you

if you say what you really think.

But that’s okay,

because those people are a bunch of worthless

dribbling halfwits who aren’t fit

to breathe the same air

as you.

An asteroid might swoop in around the sun tomorrow

and smash your new car.

That would suck.

But it would also be one hell of a story to tell.

Everything people tell you

is probably half-true at best.

But society would fall apart

if people walked around telling the truth all the time,

so that’s just as well.

The only thing worse

than waking up to your alarm clock in the morning

is not waking up to your alarm clock in the morning.

How to Identify Various Types of Things

If it looks like a gnome

and talks like a gnome,

it’s probably a hallucination.

If it spins a web

and has eight legs,

it’s probably a spider.

If it flops about

and gets caught in a net,

it’s probably a fish.

If it tells you work somewhere you don’t want to work

so you can live somewhere you don’t want to live,

it’s probably an economy.

If it’s out of ideas

but keeps posting anyways,

it’s probably a blogger.

If it knocks on your door

and gives you a pizza,

it’s probably a pizza delivery man.

If it asks for your money

and tells you to be in a certain place at a certain time,

it’s probably a religion.

If it’s always on the way,

but never gets here,

it’s probably tomorrow.

If it’s got an exhibitionist streak

but is also cripplingly shy,

it’s probably a writer.

If it’s full of little green men

and it’s hovering over your house,

it’s probably an alien spacecraft.

If it takes your money, tells you what to do,

and can put you in jail if it wants to,

it’s probably a government.

If nobody understands it,

but it’s all anybody ever talks about,

it’s probably life.

If it’s a person

even though it’s not a person,

it’s probably a corporation.

If nobody talks about it,

even though everybody knows about it,

it’s probably a terrible secret.

If it sells you pills

when you tell it about your problems,

it’s probably a drug dealer (or a psychiatrist).

If it barks excitedly when you get home,

but it’s not a dog,

it’s probably a crazy person.

If it wears black-framed glasses

and tells you about how it hates hipsters,

it’s probably a hipster.

If it makes you feel bad about yourself

even when you do everything it says,

it’s probably an ethical system.

If it comes out of somebody’s mouth

and doesn’t make any sense,

it’s probably a language.

If it’s always confused

and doesn’t know what it’s doing here,

it’s probably a person.

A Definitive Guide to Mental Health

Pretend to like your neighbors.

Pretend to like your friends.

Pretend to like your family.

Pretend to like coffee.

Pretend to like breathing.

Just never be yourself, never let it out,

keep yourself under your own thumb so tight

you could scream.

After all,

they wouldn’t like you if you were you,

you know that, don’t you?

So pretend you’re someone else,

pretend you’re talking to someone else,

pretend you’re someone good,

someone happy,

someone brave,

someone smart.

Pretend to be anyone,

anyone at all,

anything but this sickening hairless ape

that’s going to die

and then nothing.

Pretend you’re an immortal soul.

Pretend you love it.

Pretend you don’t watch the days

slipping off the calendar

like a prisoner waiting for release.

Pretend you wouldn’t destroy the world

if you could.

Pretend that you can believe a single word

of what comes out of your own mouth.

Never be what you are.

Never find who you are.

Never reach out, never ask for help,

never stop hiding,

never start living.

Never let anything touch you.

Never let it out,

it’s too disgusting,

they wouldn’t approve.

Never hope.

Never ever hope.