Two kinds of men
walk this world: the detail-oriented
and the visionary. Myself—to spend my time
tending the messy minutiae of implementation
would rob the world of the greatest gift
I can give, my fertile brain.

An idea man, my greatest
fear is being trapped
by my own progeny …
The war council convenes around a campfire.
Sal says, Good effing riddance.
Larry says, Burn her letters tonight.
Colin says, Get under someone else.
Brie says, Lock that door and throw the key in a lake.
Claire says, Let's all get naked and jump in a lake
of beer and …
Post-Apocalyptic Radio Broadcasts

All the prayers I have left, gathered by scraping
out my skull with the most thorough spatula I own,
are those beginning with the vacuously conditional
"If you exist" and ending with an endless asymptotic descent
toward wordlessness. Undead moaning. Whoever,
whatever, if, if—Have mercy! God(s) or goddess(es) loving
or wrathful, intervene! Laissez-faire alien observers,
beam down here and sort us out! Secret government
eavesdroppers, fly-on-the-wall documentarians, awakening
telepaths in my neighborhood, emergent cloud-based
AI consciousnesses, hear my prayer! Be the savior I need.
Narcissistic screenwriter of my life, penning these petitions
in my voice, understand that you have the power,
the responsibility. If I'm shambling and mindless it's because
you wrote me that way. If I'm tragically flawed,
if in this world tragedy is an acceptable ending
it's only because you want to be edgy and get laid.
Hyperdimensional sadist preteen superbeing playing a game
analogous to The Sims, for the love of God
put the ladders back in the damned swimming pools.
We, an unsaved race called humanity; me, an unsaved
creature of said race—we're here, we're in some sense real,
and we lack the virtue to save ourselves. Somebody, anybody
out there: Hear us, intervene, tyrannically as necessary
like a responsible parent or a good Samaritan or a true hero,
hear us, save us, have mercy. Amen, over and out.

War never ends
as easily as it begins.
You get your hands dirty,
do what needs to be done
to stop the fighting—
flee, surrender, sign treaties,
drive out the enemy, burn every village,
hunt down every villager—whatever
is necessary. Do that and the fighting stops,
the skies clear …
I play with LEGO, so I know
everything that happens
either blows the world apart
or builds it anew, day by day,
brick by brick. Sometimes, after
the dark whirlwind of chaos—my baby
brother—arrives hurling everything
beautiful to the ground in a shower
of plastic confetti, I scramble …
Pantoum for the Old Bigfoot Dandelion Jamborees
A pesky dandelion field
is visited by only sev-
en Bigfoots, here to share a meal
of flowers growing on their graves.

It’s visited by lonely, sev-
ered robots often, who condemn
the flowers growing on the graves
and spray the field to keep them down.

Ere robots, often …
The Meantime
Dear friend,

While you're away
I am keeping
your potted plant

neatly bounded,
precisely watered,
and mostly alive.

It's on the floor
in my house,

I haven't made
a place for it

I know
what that
would mean.

This must end,
in one
of three ways:

One, you …
The Ballad of Old Man Bruggers
When Old Man Bruggers lost his mind
we lost utopia.
It started with his crazy war
on fecophobia.

At first he ventured subtle hints
to folks he saw in town
like "Funny how we spread manure,
but flush our dookies down!"

Beneath his breath, he muttered things
about the flow …
Under the Crust
This is morbid, but in the winter
sometimes I go outside
with a round-point shovel
and scrape and pry at the crust
just for a peek under the surface,
just to see if anything down there
is still alive.

This behavior does not at all
accelerate the arrival of spring …
Idolatry and Iconoclasm
It's a fearful thing to love a statue,
returning every day to circle the dais
and study again every immortal curve—
unyielding, immutable, awesome. At first
you marched round and round like a supplicant:
incanting, worshiping the platonic form
of beauty. But now you circle like Joshua
around Jericho: tooting …
What French Programmers Do
They smoke and model their berets while all
their code recurses infinitely and
will choke, will suffocate on out-of-memory

exceptions. Helplessly they laugh and smoke
and model their berets as if they no
more choose Computer Science than they choose to be

the French. But in the smoke are others …