to this cheesy dive?
The food’s so bad that even Gluttony
can’t finish his meal.
Notice how Avarice
keeps refilling his glass
whenever he thinks we’re not looking,
while Envy eyes your plate.
Hell, we’re not even done, and Anger
is already arguing about the bill.
I’m the only one who
ever leaves a decent tip.
Let them all go, the losers!
It’s a relief to see Sloth’s
fat ass go out the door.
But stick around. I have a story
that not everyone appreciates—
about the special satisfaction
of staying on board as the last
grubby lifeboat pushes away.
DEAL WITH THE DEVIL
The bargain was that he would recollect
each moment of his life entirely—
every touch and taste, no detail lost.
The past would shine forth, not in blinding flashes
but meaningfully the way that music moves,
making a pattern out of every note.
The price was that he had a single year
to contemplate the secrets of his life
before the memories vanished utterly.
“It’s a fair deal,” the Devil said. “A life
in payment for a life. You won’t want more.
Trust me — for most lives, twice is once too often.”
“My friend, I’d have your soul in any case.
I’ve made this offer for my own amusement.
The artist is my favorite customer.”
Oddly enough, he did believe the demon.
What point was there revisiting the past?
Why enter that gray Garden of Medusa
To wander through its mute memorials?
Better to let the rain pit, and the years
Erode those granite visages. And yet …
He hungered for the stones of memory.
It was the pain itself that he was after
not to alleviate but to perfect—
The delectation of his own damnation—
to earn the blessings of oblivion.
Smiling at Lucifer, he signed his name.
MEDITATION ON A LINE FROM NOVALIS
Wo gehen wir denn hin? Immer nach Hause.
When his beloved Sophie died, Novalis
Lay by her grave and wept himself to sleep.
On the third night she met him in a dream.
He woke transformed, longing for the last trance,
“When sleep shall be without waking.” Therein,
Observed one critic, “lies his originality”—
Death was not tragedy but a romance.
Where are we going? Home, always back home.
He rarely finished any piece of writing—
“The urge toward perfection is a disease.”
Whether through genius or incompetence,
His fragments blur together — but into what?
Not quite philosophy or even art,
But the disclosure of some primal secret.
“Love is the final purpose of the world.”
Where are we going? Home, always back home.
“Our life is not a dream but must become one.”
He left philosophy to study mining
And prospered in the work. He wrote at night
Drafting out stories that refused to end.
He died at twenty-eight. Schelling kept watch
Beside the poet’s sickbed, marveling
How joyfully he contemplated death.
Where are we going? Home, always back home.
TITLE INDEX TO MY NEXT BOOK OF POEMS
Against Immortality, 3
Assignation in the Aerodrome, 11
Ballade of Bad Sandwiches, 16
Chief Holidays of Hell, 9
Chimera Sightings, 32
Clowns in the Cancer Clinic, 25
Depression in an Elevator, 13
Dysfunctional Sestina, 20
Envy as an Art Form, 53
Forgetting Veronika, 44
Great Colas of Our Childhood, 6
Harp Repair in Heaven, 8
Leaving Veronika, 43
Life as a Limited Time Offer, 65
Long Walk off a Short Pier, 57
Meeting Veronika, 41
More Fun in Stalingrad, 30
Necronyms Anonymous, 51
Nightmares of the Gynecologist, 54
No Bison in Buffalo, 27
No Secrets in Saskatchawan, 29
Our Longeurs, 4
Pantoum of Intimate Body Tattoos, 17
Phoning Veronika, 45
Postcards from an Off Season Resort, 56
Recyclable Romantics, 64
Sphinx’s Smile, Lion’s Claw, 55
Sturm and Drang in a Thong, 22
Txting Vrnka, 46
Thirty-Six Varieties of Despondency, 18
Urgent Business with a Bee, 67
Vanity Deserves More Attention, 33
Winning Veronika, 47
Wise and Foolish Virginians, 36
Notes on the Poems 69
V. STORIES
THE ROOM UPSTAIRS
Come over to the window for a moment—
I want to show you something. Do you see
The one hill without trees? The dust-brown one
Above the highway? That’s how it all looked
When I first came — no watered lawns or trees,
Just open desert, pale green in the winter,
Then brown and empty till the end of fall.
I never look in mirrors anymore,
Or if I do, I just stare at the tie
I’m knotting, and it’s easy to pretend
I haven’t changed. But how can I ignore
The way these hills were cut up into houses?
I always thought the desert would outlive me.
How did I get started on this subject?
I’m really not as morbid as I sound.
We hardly know each other, but I think
You’ll like it here — the college isn’t far,
And this old house, like me, still has its charms.
I chose the site myself and drew the plans—
A modern house, all open glass and stone,
The rooms squared off and cleared of memory.
No wonder Mother hated the idea.
I had to wait until she died to build.
It was her money after all.
No,
I never married, never had the time
Or inclination to. Still, getting older,
One wonders … not so much about a wife—
No mystery there — but about a son.
I always looked for one among my students
And found too many. Never look for what
You truly want. It comes too easily,
And then you never value it enough—
Until it’s gone — gone like these empty hills
And all the years I spent ignoring them.
There was a boy who lived here years ago—
Named David — a clever, handsome boy
Who thought he was a poet. That was back
When I still dreamed of writing. We were both
So full of dreams. He was a student here—
In those rare moments when he chose to study—
But climbing was the only thing he cared for.
It’s strange how clearly I remember him.
He lived here off and on almost two years—
In the same room that you are moving into.
You’ll like the room. David always did.
Once during a vacation he went off
With friends to climb El Capitan. They took
A girl with them. But it’s no easy thing
To climb three thousand feet of granite,