Two Poems

Fugue or Fondue?




For what duration
can purpose be


A question like vinegar
and mustard, like
an unmowed lawn.


Answers like beloveds seem
not the one. Like you assumes
unnamed berries poisonous.




“Knowledge needs ignorance
as vision needs shade,”
says Ockham,


the lilacs,
cavities, fledgling


Fugue or fondue?
Directions take time
to dissolve.




But what of the sea,
the hidden boat one
with the threatening wave?


What of distance
shores faint
against the lurking eye?


What of your fear,
the unsubstantiated word




We exist by virtue of God’s masochism,
a self-inflicted otherness,
a sailing shipwreck,
tweeted the pope.

That is why we must meditate
on marble as if it were flesh,
cajole ourselves for wanting
one final cannoli

or be nonplussed.
It is why words are vultures,
and myth will forever be myth,
according to the latest numbers.

It is why genius is destiny,
and I could have been anywhere
and anyone,
but I am here and me.

Or how your hand cream augurs
augury itself
as hand cream,
flashing truth as an emoticon.