The Sun and the Moon


I caught the sun peering when it
thought I wasn’t looking
I’m not sure but I thought I saw the
glimmer of a smile

All suns explode, that’s natural,
That’s how they end
But every time it still comes as a shock
Explosions of that kind knock
everything off their course
Gravity and entropy stop to compare notes
then shrug and say, “Einstein was probably right.”

The light of the sun – once it implodes –
into a white dwarf – would be about the same as
the light of the full moon

The moon doesn’t need competition
The moon doesn’t need to be reminded
that her light is just a reflection
that she’s dry and cold and rocky
or that her unique gravitational pull makes our
waters rise and fall

It feels like each time the sun sets
he tells the other side of the world how much
he prefers them
and how he would just as soon not rise again
on this side of the globe

The moon, from out of nowhere,
every once in a while
races across the sky
to show us she is closer, and also able
to blot that lucky old sun from the sky


Already over

It feels like it’s already over, doesn’t it?
I know it does to me.
The sun still rises in the east, of course, but that’s all it does.
It does not warm or illuminate.
It does not sing a merry morning song.
It badgers and blisters, then stays above the fray.


I didn’t think the end would feel like this.
I thought there would be more noise and tears,
instead of all this emptiness.


Her Love

Her love comes from a place of mystery
natural, but not of this world
She taps her foot in time to
a song that only she can hear
and cries sometimes at nothing

Her love doesn’t live with other love
Her love lives alone
Sometimes she can see it
high in the sky
above even the stars

Her love is a moving target
Some things she remembers never were true
Other memories have surrendered to time
Memory’s loss is love’s gain

Her love goes into places
normally hidden by fear
and sees the beginning and end
of everything
Her love makes her laugh



Beware of hope

Hope – that thing that Emily covered with feathers – rises at the precise moment you determined that it doesn’t exist.
It takes the form of mythical creatures you abandoned to fantasy at some point in late childhood.
It whispers in a voice that is just beneath the threshold of human hearing.
It knows the names we call ourselves and hums old and vaguely familiar tunes in our unsuspecting ears.
Hope lurks as stealthily as the most committed thief.
It has more patience than any member of the human race.
It has weapons we won’t understand until after we are dead.
Hope knows every obstacle that stands between it and its fulfillment and is both stronger and smarter than any of them.

Beware of hope



The longer I live, the less anger I feel toward people who do bad or crazy things and the more I feel sorry for them. I feel sorry for the ignorant, the angry, and the apathetic. For the violent and their victims. I feel sorry for everybody. Every copy. Every BLM activist. Every racist. Every billionaire. Every rapist. Every politician. Every priest. Every prisoner. As Kurt Vonnegut points out often in his final book, none of us asked to be here. In a scene in that book, Hitler’s final words before killing himself are, “I never asked to be born in the first place.”

We are all victims of our circumstances.

I try not to feel sorry for myself for a host of reasons. Mainly because self-pity is such an ugly trait. More so because as a white man in America I have been given every advantage a society has to give. And more even than that because I have been given the greatest advantage any person can have: I was born to two people who loved me and loved each other.

I feel sorry for Donald Trump. He is a man who appears to have led a charmed life: born to wealth in a society that worships it, he has achieved supremacy in the thing that matters most to him: fame. He obviously could not care less about being president of the United States, as least as far as doing that difficult job goes, but it keeps him in the center of the spotlight, the only place where he can find any value in himself. He has had sex with more women than he can remember, but he has never made love. He was not born to people who loved him and loved each other. He was born to raging assholes who were incapable of teaching him the first, and most important, lesson of life: how to love. What could be more pitiful than that?

Isn’t it a pity?
Isn’t it a shame?
How we break each other’s hearts
And cause each other pain
How we take each other’s love
Without thinking anymore
Forgetting to give back
Isn’t it a pity?

Somethings take so long
But how do I explain?
When not too many people
Can see we’re all the same
And because of all their tears
Their eyes can’t hope to see
The beauty that surrounds them
Isn’t it a pity?