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It is often odd to think

that without us there

would be less than nothing

here and yet everything

but us would still appear,

and probably (a stretch,

perhaps) a lot more oxygen.

So I keep a pet illusion

near, I have named him

real, but he is only a looking

glass.

By which I mean he is inside himself.

It must make it

hard to breathe.

Ah, but the clock is bent

on precision and turning

this day over. A virtual

subversion of the plot.

-the ambassador

Logic, Religion, Dolphins

I am, by nature, analytical. This is not to say that I'm always entirely reasonable or rational. I do, however, tend to look at things closely, to attempt to see what lurks below the surface. I realized recently that my poetry is an attempt - subconscious until now - to recontextualize beauty for myself. Actually, it has become something of an obsession for me to take horrifying objects, events, etcetera, and to use language itself to bend them into something different - perhaps even something worth looking at for a long while - something to, as my analytical side insists, figure out.

I'm also deeply interested in the human animal. More precisely, I'm interested in the human as animal. Far too often a gap is posited between the human and the natural - and, if you've noticed, we as a species are always trying to justify our belief in that gap. "Oh, it's our consciousness of the self that sets us apart." Not so. Some primates recognize themselves in mirrors. Is it, perhaps, language? I will grant that the range of language humans have attained is impressive. Dolphins also have an extremely complex language - for it can be called nothing else - with which they express a range of emotions - for they can be called nothing else. Before any attempt at scientific justification of our unique standing in the universe, we turned to religion. "Yes, we are the Chosen People," said the Jews. But, then, weren't Muslims also the Chosen People? Weren't Christians, in turn, also Chosen? Don't all religions believe that they have the truth, and that everyone else - benign as their intentions might be - are simply wrong?

Well, I have a tendency to believe fact. I suppose it is a fault I can blame on nature. Nevertheless, it is this interest in the human animal - and all the beauty, shame, ugliness, importance, impotence, reality, and unreality that is inherent in it - that drives my poetry.

None of this is any more than one possible lens through which to view my words - because words is all I has to play with, as someone (I'm not sure who) once wrote. It could also be the ramblings of a would-be poet who has had one too many drinks on a Friday night.

-the ambassador

A Summary

Who is judged thus?

Be it an appearance

of mortal man? So the anger

speaks, the augur seeks,

the craven weep of mercy. By

rights, on whom the mantle

still obsidian rests, attest

not to shadows what was

seen.

It is a departure.

The setting straight of a crooked tale.

No more as orator,

in lieu a craft of subtler stead.

A waking of the worms

inside a head.

And so, a temporal adieu:

no more ask of whence

a body came, not

of why a soldier laughs or how

these bones collapse,

but of how a life resumes.

-the ambassador

Some Neo-aeonic Musings

So dead skin goes,

it grows,

resigned to residence

on the floor.

It's flaw, consistent.

Do not read the wall and its paper,

yellow and cracked

as it may be,

as a lack of entertainment.

Here,

time is

fragile.

Here,

the moment

of conception means

something entirely different.

If your skin is twisted, if it is

dismissive of your bones

and their regal bearing,

if it is

inconsistent, flay it from

its throne and lay it where

these stones collide.

-the ambassador

New Valence

Do we mask our lies with certainty?

Make light of particular discrepancies?

All stories, all songs:

repeatedly related, readily incarcerated

for purposes known

and steadfastly evaded.

I put a call in to the moon,

even left a message

(which I never do),

but I must have imagined

a previous conversation.

I've seen some serious indignation.

Regardless, he left me hanging

(which seems ironic),

so it's the cold shoulder for him,

at least while I sleep.

It's more fun in the Deep,

where conflicts and clashes

and flashes of sublimation

get cold and I

stubbornly see my body get old:

(some lies, some appearances)

(some art, some new valences).

-the ambassador

(untitled)

Burnt myself out in a dream:

spoke to a cop, a rock,

a damsel, a demon,

one too many friends.

Ask me if I'm giving up:

two flat tires on a tricycle

and some elevation ahead.

These buildings are boxes and I'm free

inside them.

Somehow the stairs

fight me: play a game called thin

air

and tumble.

Even the friends I create ask

too many questions.

As luck would have it, the search was had

for somebody else.

Scalded my nose

thanking the stars.

Refused a ride

home just to walk

with somebody real.

-the ambassador

I Dive Too

oughtn't tease a brain,

they sneeze, they sprain,

and a tongue turned wrong

side down won't do.

Is this an error

or has reciprocity gone bad?

Hanged hopes on coat

racks in corners

speak volumes and sink

to decks soaked in blue:

eke out a living as ghosts do.

curious,

though,

how these ghosts

still pray.

at a desk wrought

from the butt of a sequioa:

he sits.

sifts through reams of orders,

wondering which to give next.

somebody's sequence

reflects.

-the ambassador