The weight of the world rests squarely on
the shoulders of the oxen, squats between
the ears of rabbits, presses down on the backs
of the ducks and makes them waddle. No one
does existential dread quite like prey.
The Tao of Pooh is good, but
The Ontology of Eeyore is better.

 
I used to worry that swiping cookies
from the jar before dinner would
mystically give Christ on the cross a big yank.

 
If you can lift your head, scan the treetops.
There in the pattern of the branches and leaves
perches a hawk like a shrieking comma,
waiting to punctuate a life.

 
I used to drop acid as an anti-depressant.
I also used to joke that if you couldn’t
justify your existence at every moment,
then you should stick a loaded shotgun
in your mouth and pull the trigger.
It isn’t a funny joke, but it was
the only one I tended to remember
after dropping acid as an anti-depressant.

 
How many hours did I spend tripping and staring into a mirror,
thinking about feeding the homeless citizens of Ann Arbor
an assortment of baked goods from the local market? I planned
to leave the food, wrapped, in various trash cans and dumpsters,
but I wasn’t sure which ones the homeless ate out of most frequently,
which ones might be emptied before a homeless person
could retrieve that Entenmanns’s cheese Danish and think,
“Thank you, mysterious undergraduate!”

 
I’m happier now, but I don’t pray anymore.
But I’m happier now.
But I don’t pray anymore.
I can’t see the hawk in the trees.