I don't like Metal,
but Up the Mountain, Down the
Mountain I do like.

The innocence of
children: following orders
and being cruel.

Math problems come in
two forms: the obvious and
the as yet unsolved.

Signifiers are
arbitrary, got it. But
roses don't smell sweet.

Please note: without words,
there would still be moving and
beautiful music.

Treating depressives
as diseased discounts the fact
that they're mostly right.

In my dreams for this
prison, all of the inmates
escape gracefully.

Knock knock. Who's there? Owls.
Owls who? That's right! And little
piggies go oink oink!

Love, be careful with
that knife. The armor I wear
is only cardboard.

"… and the boys say they're
concerned that they are concerned
with these accidents."

Who's a good boy? Who's
a good boy? Who's a good boy?
Puppy Cerberus.

Is that "sorry" in
the apologetic or
commiserative?

Physical features
are only judged to be flaws:
Why not just be nice?

Bassist: "You beat those
drums like they owe you money."
Drummer: "Well, they do."

Hey, you, asshole, it's
Minnesota: be nice or
go fuck the fuck off.

You can catch more flies.
You can choose your enemies.
You can't judge a book.

loose nudist hemmed in
and collared on the outskirts
of the garment district

From our vacation
in Living Hell: photos with
Death in the background.

Blocked, I am watching
my reflection watching my
reflection and blocked.

In the reunion
nightmare, we receive masks of
all our past faces.

So then there is small
talk. We have to start somewhere,
and so we start small.

The absence of a
unique solution doesn't
mean you aren't wrong.

Faint praise for gender
norms: masculine women can
pass more plausibly.

"I hear some talk of
Guns and Butter. That's something
We can do without."

The radical prof:
Could there even be a more
conservative trope?

I do not snore but
am an old man: I'm always
sleepy when it rains.

It took me years to
love The Wrens' The Meadowlands,
but it is lovely.

These are strange times for
moral authority. But
then what times are not?

The Prophet, to be
a successful prophet, must
be a false prophet.

We offer so much,
yet Irony's appetite
is never sated.

What's it all about?
Why do we do what we do?
To what purpose, this?

The Ner Tamid and
Altar Lamp always remind
me of the Ghost Light.

On this, the Day of
Atonement, we study a
joke about mercy.

There's no I in "team."
There's no U in "team" either—
just rearranged "meat."

A little song: Go,
Speed Writer, go, Speed Writer,
go, Victor Hugo.

I had forgotten
I so enjoy The Misfits.
Hail Jenny, Satan.

A chipmunk? No, leaves.
Delight, then disappointment,
then a new delight.

Regarding Randolph's
Ricochet Robots: really
rock-'em-sock-'em rules.

It gets knocked down, but
it gets up again, this song
is stuck in my head.

"This ain't no Mud Club
or CBGB's. I ain't
got time for that now."

Like mittens worn bare
against the cold, hearts worn bare
scratch at their mendings.

I have a neighbor
has a dog, and Elu is
her name: E, L, U.

Dark mornings reveal
a secret wish: that this year
the days remain long.

The bees go dancing
and the apple blossoms when
the apple blossoms.

Evidence suggests
we will get fooled again. Please,
New Boss, be gentle.

First Marquee Moon, then
Los Angeles, now Loveless—
I love Caffetto.

Bingo, raffles, and
bowling: Memory Lanes makes
church basements envy.

Checking technical
conditions: polishing grains
of sand, one by one.

If you've never done
it, go look up "quisling": great
etymology.

A small wooden box
of handwritten notes remains
from time having passed.

With desperate eyes
the panda is adamant:
my ball, my ball, mine.

With sweet insistence,
we read a boekie, and then
we read a boekie.

Then and after then
and after and after and
from each thing some thing.

What greater hope than
laughter for our foolish yarns,
spun, measured, and sheared?

Science fiction is
popular. Science poems have
somehow not caught on.

I go to shows, and
being around people feels
so isolating.

Just as today joins
tomorrow and yesterday
it sets them apart.

Against the plastic
bottle's lip, a flower's stem
rests and gently bows.

Attractive people
seem less intimidating
when met as couples.

Math for Poets needs
a fellow: Poetics for
Mathematicians.

Puddles of colors
waving light on rainwater
rising from tires.

Jenny introduced
me to Frozen Teens, and I
am thankful for that.

The bicycle spans
specific and general
relativity.

It's plainly complex,
but some of Paul's best friends were
imaginary.

Lettuce and parsley
wilt so quickly in my fridge.
How should I store them?

If at first you don't
succeed, try something else: you're
being clocked—and judged.

I've not read much by
James Baldwin. Perhaps today
I'll start to change that.

Met a dog and got
her name, but not how it's spelled—
next time, I'll ask her.

Search not for lost time
up Lyndale at 4AM
in your underwear.

Milky waiter takes
milky weights and measures of
milky curds and whey.

I was thinking of
a new bicycle. Theft means
I must think quickly.

Look at it this way:
Today is the first day of
the rest of the week.

Along the greenway,
from the market, pedaling
the carbon cycle

Some nonsense for you
based on "dooby dooby do":
kuhai kuhai ku.

Not writing haiku
is not good motivation
for writing haiku.

Unicorns all have
spikes sticking out of their heads—
maybe they're punkers.

I really should stop
crushing on girl bass players.
From now on: drummers.

Today, take time to
find Spiritual Unity—
great Albert Ayler.

Uncharted waters
bounding the Map of Metal
say "Here there be Twee."

"It's good knowing he's
out there... takin' 'er easy
for all us sinners."

So: It turns out that
Statistics gets in the way
of writing haiku.

And I am the hand
And I am the hand that takes
And I take and take

That apple pie is
in fact not American:
best part of the phrase.

R is open source.
You can read a function call
an internal.

Okay, the ends don't
justify the means—but then
what exactly does?

A function is a
farmhand placing each apple
in just one basket.

Punctured bicycle
On a hillside desolate—
Good lyric, bad luck.

Wheel within a wheel
Epibicycle rider
Ptolemaic path

There are rivers, rains,
oceans, pools, dew—water too
has ways of being.

Lift your face and drink
In the sun of flowing wine
Remember no sin.

The ambiguous
is ambiguous. It means
all the things it says.

Girl with umbrella
held close to her face—a clutch
of fresh-cut flowers.

Crumpled wax paper
scutters and leaps—mistaken
for a mouse, then bird.

Water of laughter
falls and falls and falls against
its all flowing self.

Former lovers touch
like returning home or to
the scene of the crime.

meticulous hand
composed articulate form
a scratch, an embrace

Waves of rays of light
Rice paper sinuous glows
Shadows of windows

Some omissions are
also an attention to
detail—mind the gap.

An evening sun
In the spring of huge roses
Golden plump and ripe

The bugs gather to
protest that they were here first—
angry gnatavists.