studying a life-sized portrait
of Diogenes. holding a lantern. looking
for one honest man. surrounded by cows.
a horse.
a porcine drunk. a kid thumbing his nose.

the museum was closing in five minutes.
a shame.
because i had just arrived. (a strange statement.
"just arrived".)

a woman suddenly appeared. desperate
to look familiar. (black mascara. trench coat.
could have been a Russian spy.)

the light from Diogenes’ lantern
was touching her face.
illuminating her earrings.
something magnetic stood between us.
if she had burst
into song i would have melted.

“do you like dogs?”
her voice sounded like ice crystals
teasing a dark window.
(who doesn’t like dogs?)

Diogenes
was laughing. i could hear him
from across the canvass.
he knew
a good joke when he saw one coming.

perhaps you are out of town.
you don’t answer your calls.
the neighbors say you were seen reading Sartre.
there must be some mistake
the physics is all wrong.

was that you they dreamed?
even the clouds are confused.
this better not be the end of the book.

it’s time for lunch.
they’re serving spaghetti
again.

he flew to Denmark
with a bag of ideas.
the plane was a year late
causing him to forget his name.
the museum was smaller
than expected and capable
of rolling away.

“it this the place?”
“yes,” they said.

his only option was cubism
which he did not understand.
a woman pointed at a cloud.
“a homecoming parade,” she laughed.

the best restaurant in the world
was down the street.
he made a reservation for the year 2075.
he wasn’t sure about cuisine
but had time to ****.

at the intersection he went the wrong way
and had to use an idea to get out

of the story.

a tiny light. in crystal arc
of night.
her butterscotch scent.
consuming. going under. trusting the future.
the sum of the parts
greater
than the lesser of two evils.

it’s all calculus. man.
that’s what she said.

early morning
   was a puddle
   of fog.

at the café his eggs stared back at him
like a pair of golden tadpoles.

when no one was looking
he set his dark glasses
atop the yokes
and snapped a photograph
with his cellphone.

his first selfie.

watching Zïzëk expound
upon the death of capitalism
when the router crashes
and turns the philosopher
into frozen pixels
leaving the rest of us
with something to do

besides Wifi philosophy.

Over the ****

in a previous life. i was a camel driver.
this was learned during a Tarot card reading.
that set me back $10.

would you pay ten dollars to find out you
were a camel driver in a previous life?  
of course you would.

the last time i met a camel. it spit on my shoes.
why would it do that?

good question. for my next reading.

they stood outside the stadium
unshriven
without a clue
broken by numbers
sober as the moon

every one of them
hollow in the wind
watching their hands
shouting

sativa!
sativa!

bathing in secret pools.
mercury roiling.
the fragrance of lovers vaporous.
skin clinging to skin. fire in their eyes
sweet pain in the release
going over.

the gods in their limpid clemency feign truth
upon darkness maligned with them

even in throes of madness
melting at the core
they step from the waters and know the hour.

what is given cannot be broken
by gods or man
only death can pull them apart
and even then….

*angry in the cheat. clouds smearing them with spume
old gods defeated by one hard truth. their hearts surrendered.

flying in the rain
her sobbing. me listening
to Cheb-i-Sabbah

thinking about something
    else.

today is a holiday
like others.

there may be asteroids.

her mind was an occupational hazard
picked up in a thrift store
during a shopping spree on the outskirts
of ***** Gorda.

she had no idea how to wear the new projection
but trust
is a function of telomeres
and can’t be left to amateurs.

that was before the impulsive drive to Salina
to rethink her allergy to corn
which turned out
to be one of her worst ideas.

Looking East

she looked east
and saw the sun
burning a hole
in the pavement.
her time was
almost up. too
late for revisions.
she heard the wind
laughing. soft voices.
neighbors clinking
glasses. clouds
passing. the only
hope the nature
of time. its open
invitation. and not
knowing.

the not knowing.
that was it.

Yes, yes, we’re magicians… (Samuel Beckett)

come to terms
a rhino in the elevator

whistleblower!

         bread and wine
fat and drunk

        the jails are full of geniuses.

the movie about the hurricane
dragged into tomorrow —
somebody lied to the animals.

when the sun cracked
everybody laughed.

a voice on the radio said,
carbon …. it’s all about carbon!

jack rabbits wander the cold penumbra
by forty.

they heard music and walked to the Plaza to watch a troupe of Native Americans
dancing for a crowd of tourists. a woman with shocking white hair was laughing

into her camera. the music came from an antiquated boombox the size of a small Japanese sedan. the city floated on the earth’s crust like a plate of cheese nachos.

poor Hamlet
lost in his nutshell
a pawn
in the empire of the tattooed

      "digitus infamis"

dispatched by ragged luck

      electric

one long slog.