Petrarch died the death I envy most:
they discovered him gone, his head
resting on his desk, on top of his
manuscripts.

I envy this not so much for the graceful
nature of passing away on top of a poem, 
but rather for the abrupt instance
of this passing.

Death should be immediate, a stroke,
an abrupt voiding of the body, 
and not a slow decline from
heath to ineptness.


Little Parts of the Same God

The future looks back upon
us all and says, "Create me.

All of you in the teeming
are one boisterous tag team,
most without the game plan,
but nearly all passionate
to play.

Create me. I need form,
whether civilized or animal;
one could say it hardly matters,
but we all -- you in the past, there,
and I, your aspirations made
flesh -- all wish it to be better.

You little parts of the same
god, if you stop to wish,
I would be great; but you
never take time to wish for 
what will exist a thousand 
years from your day."

The future looks back upon
us all and says, "I'm not sure
I am grateful to you."


Pumping, Pumping

We need to love, just as we
need to hate. These hands
of ours crave dramatic use.

We need to gather, just as
we need to set free.
Our arms are strong,
but strongest when
they release.

We need to run,
sometimes towards,
sometimes away;
indeed most writing
is a form of running
away, although somewhere
deep inside all these words
is a keen destination,

if only we could recognize it
as our legs go pumping,
pumping.