ITEM

At the bottom of God's 

List Of Things To Do Today

It usually says "Exist." 

Of course how often

Does anyone reach the end

Of such lists? Since God

Is everywhere He is also

Waiting next to "Exist,"

Thinking "I'll give Him

Just a bit more time."

JL'S GAME

At some point, he knew,

A proper chess game might awake,

Know itself and know

What its course should be.

But then the white player forgets 

That his bishop grows old

Or the black player is stirred

By the white King's sad eyes

The game screams -- Joseph

Could mimic the sound exactly -- 

As destiny settles back uneasily 

For a ride on the wrong train.

BY POST

By the time the parcel arrived

The lies I'd packed had been

So tossed and jumbled that they

Had turned into truths. Having

No choice, I hung them

Inconspicuously and served strong drinks

Still, Professor Plum, in the billiard room,

Wept all night and Miss Scarlet,

With a lead pipe, locked herself

In the conservatory.

SHROUD

Being hypochondriacs, the muses

Stayed away from me when I was ill

Except the very old one who brought me

An epic in Linear B about Laertes,

Odysseus' father. Laertes mostly

Mopes around the house; occasionally,

He works in the garden or gets drunk

With slaves and sailors. Towards the end

He sends a note to Penelope urging her

To find a less morbid occupation

Than working on his shroud. "I sailed

On the Argo. I am perfectly willing

To thrown into the sea, wrapped in a net."

ILLUMINATE

The failing neon light
Has never seen daylight
Awake only when it's on
It believes the world
Flickers as the moon
Stutter-steps along the sky.

FROM PSALMANEEZER'S FORMOSAN-BASQUE PHRASEBOOK (3RD EDITION)

It looks like the Devil
But what business has he
Here where no men are?

ASPIRANTS

The color yellow does not expect

Anytime soon to become God. Still,

It keeps its resume up to date and

Locked in its escritoire. If yellow

Does become God there will be an opening

For a new color. The feeling of apprehension

Native to late midwinter afternoons

Believes it would be perfect for the job.

It sees the principle of nonchalance

As its most dangerous rival.

IS MY COTANGENT

Suppose God

Is a probability wave

Who functions 

As if He exists 

Except when doubt

Collapses Him

Into a curveless curve

Useful if

You need a bookmark.

SUBWAY MUSIC

The old man -- 70? 80? 60 but life's been mighty rough?

Walks down the middle of the subway car

With a cane and a can, held out for change.

This leaves him without a hand to steady himself

Against the car's judder and sway. His clothes 

Are old; his new shoes busy themselves 

Trying to keep him from falling outright. He sings 

Ancient Top 40 songs as if they were the blues 

He comes in as a tenor, singing that it's his party and

He'll cry if he wants to but, halfway along,

Switches to a whiskey bass and urges Cupid

To draw back his bow. I give him some change;

This distracts him and he sings twice over

That he's in danger of losing all his happiness.

THE REPLACEMENT

The conscience that was born with me

Came out in spots one day and then

Took to its bed, went all green,

And died an improving death. Nine days later

I toured the notional attic where sit

Things my family cannot get rid of.

The old conscience I brought down

Was obviously made for a larger man;

A tailor cut it down and watchmakers

Set it going. We never really got along;

It sneered at the crimes and sins I brought it

Saying “Delicts and misdemeanors! A bent

Piece of envy, duties undone and taxes

Underpaid! The mice in the attic

Committed wrongs better-wrought than these!”

I urged it to get out more, accusing it

Of not understanding the times. It said

I wasn’t worth bad dreams; instead

It would occasionally throw a small rock at me

Then disappear. sometimes for months

So I’d have to hire temporary consciences --

All of whom really wanted to be actors –

When I was invited to formal occasions.

Still, it has never been gone so long before

And I find myself fearing it’s found

A subject worthy of its mettle.

You’d think

A conscience would have a finer sense of honor

Than to abandon me after all these years.

STONES

The empire of flat stones has no

Determinate boundaries. It appears

When it chooses. Three stones together

Are enough to call it forth with its officers

Banners, bangles, flashy furbelows

And a long line of emperors

Each of whom has a court artist

To immortalize him and an umbrella.

My time on the throne was brief;

I have lost touch with my officers

And had to sell my banners, my bangles and –

This hurt most– all my flashy furbelows.

I’ve kept the umbrella despite its missing rib

And its stubborn refusal to open.

ANNUATED

One of my jobs in the office was to be

The One Who Doesn’t Know What’s Going On

So that, years later, I’d find out

That coldfooted Love had walked the corridors

And brightwinged Hate had banged on doors

And jammed the only good copy machine.

Others took comfort in my oblivion

Secure that I was unaware that this one

Was a thief and that one a saint

And this other a thief and a saint

 (I still haven’t worked out quite how

That was managed. Was she a thief and a saint

Alternately or did she ply her vocations

Simultaneously?)

BIRDS

Protocol demanded we send

A nightingale to break the Emperor's heart

But nightingales are not native to these parts

And birds were, that year, in short supply.

We did our best and sent two nightjars --

One with and one without ears. The experiment

Was a failure. The Emperor's heart remained

Entirely whole. The earred nightjar,

Lyncornis macrotis to its friends  --

Told bawdy stories and fell asleep.

The other -- a common poorwill

Of no breeding -- betrayed us,

Becoming a member of the Cabinet –

A junior one, without portfolio.

HAPPENS, HAS HAPPENED, WILL HAPPEN

That night

The light

That loves not us

Will fuss

And fume

And flee the room

Where by God's will

Time lies still

Ice on his clothes

His nose

Sharp as a pin

While Sin

Makes jests

For ragged guests

But fears

Tears.

A VISIT

I knock on the door and God, the butler,

Emerges from the mirror where He,

In His shirtsleeves, has been polishing silver.

He gravely takes my name; when I leave,

It will be returned, cleaned and invisibly mended

And smelling pleasantly of lemon oil and camellias.

He conducts me to the library where He

Courteously puts aside His pen and book

Delaying, perhaps forever, doom or salvation

For some coterie of souls holding vigil

Watching thick candles grow less or an ill moon

Turning back half-risen. I hand Him the parcel

Addressed to Him in beautiful handwriting

Which I don't recognize. We speak for hours

In languages I do not understand.

STOPPED

The poem stopped in mid-stanza

Stood, stretched, put on a scarf -- 

Though the weather was warm --

And said "That will be it

For today; there's a work stoppage;

We can, perhaps,reschedule 

Once it's over." Easier

To convince a charging bull

That he'd rather loll on a beach

And discuss the finer points

Of apiculture than to make a poem

Stay when it's determined to leave.

Annoying; I was under contract

For 500 foot/boards of poetry

And the deadline was near. 

The enduser would be unhappy but

In place of the saga he'd wanted

(Though not deserved) would make do

With two cartloads of nonunion haiku

IN MEMORIAM EW

He had a perfectly useless talent

For becoming -- sometimes, always when alone --

The somewhat nicer version of himself 

He'd been when much younger. To make up for it,

He'd make unpleasant remarks all through dinner 

Or write a vile letter to the press.