But this new perspective has brought me into alignment with many other writers before me. Credos started to make sense; more than that, they began to appear obvious or exciting. My exploration of “casual translation” with Spanish at the end of my thesis work is not far removed from Ezra Pound’s Cantos, especially the stuff I’ve done with Korean. I developed this philosophy and fanaticism for trees, their apparent immortality contrasted with immobility. And that’s classic Robert Frost, isn’t it?

I used to be turned off to Ted Berrigan’s mired banality but that’s changed. After having “lived”, his sort of energy and approach make much more sense. My current trajectory is producing poems along his line. I still can’t make heads or tails of Berrigan, but that’s perhaps the point.

It started a few years ago, this realization that I’ve shared this convergent evolution with other poets. I labored over a poem to present to Marjorie Welish and I came up with the phrase: “as punctual as the stars”. I was fairly proud because it was quaint, homely, but a little surprising. Later, I was reading one of the few collections by Agha Shahid Ali, a poet I’ve looked up to since day one. He had written the exact same phrase, only to describe a different idea.

Sonnet et al in a milkcrate

s out and spits grey into a cup
she sometimes empties in the mor
ning. Nothing surprises here so
there can’t be anything beautifu

l. My back after the first week
wouldn’t lose the shape of the f
loor. After the ninth, everythin
g becomes the ninth. I’m spread

over with coordinates and the ma
th ends: 6 by 2 stacked 3 high 2
0 to a room mostly singles but M
ei shares with her daughter who’

ll make puberty soon. Her spine
will stitch a gentle S, her neck
a wrinkle smoothed by a cold ir
on. Breakfast is lunch and lunch

is a cup of pocket change. When
styrofoam heats it tastes like
satay. The Western trick is to c
over the length in mirrors but t

his only works when touch isn’t
in the equation. Kong has corner
-knee in both legs. Sometimes Hu
ian from upstairs rolls in her s

leep and her hair wilts in 9′s t
hrough the ceiling. Some day I’l
l cut it and lose the strands. I
t costs extra if you want to be

able to almost stand. The street
s so much shoulder the windows,
this island of sky and scraps.

yesterday willbe
blueprints for what ispossible
I’ll getto tomorrow how everyonedoes
wakingto thetip ofmytongue
halfmouthedhope theworld hasno thingchangedsince
Itrustedmyeyes
toshutteroff
tomor rowtoss esup toomuch tobe once

My high school is located near the World Trade Center. In the “pre 9/11″ age, students would ride the elevators during their lunch period. We were drastically affected the planes; the walk home that day was an event of itself. I vaguely remember a story about our auditorium being used as a morgue. Maybe that was true. We couldn’t return to school for a few weeks and even when we did, we shared the classrooms and hallways at Brooklyn Tech. We didn’t go back until 2012.

I remember those Tuesdays and Wednesdays, without homework or routines. The only television channel that was still airing talked only about that day. We played handball, instead. But coming home at night was terrifying. That stillness, the silence. At first, I didn’t realize how much I wanted human interaction. I started throwing parties and inviting people I barely even knew. It helped, but everyone eventually went at the end.

My high school psychology teacher once spoke about constructive channeling. A boy who develops a fetish for cutting things can become a serial killer (detrimental to society), a butcher (neutral), or a surgeon (beneficial). I attribute my lifestyle today, its outlook, to that formative titanic need for people to be around me. It’s partly why I abandoned a career in computer science. Staring at a screen made me feel empty inside. I became vocal and eventually grew into a teacher. I championed an ethic of believing in people and being ridiculously ambitious.

It hasn’t been a straight road the last 10 years. Like everything, I was shaken and tested. Particularly in the last 1 or 2 years, I’ve had these doubts. Maybe life just got that much harder and my faith weaker. Maybe the conditions of life haven’t gotten worse but haven’t gotten better and 10 years of that have cemented my doubts.

I’m sick of the way people treat each other. As a leader and an educator, especially of children, I’m aware that I have the agency to change that. I will. But I don’t think I can continue on a personal level. I remember that other lifestyle fondly; dealing with just one mind is more predictable and so much more rewarding. I hope to not sound morbid but I’m grateful for the impact the September 11th attacks have had on me. I would not have otherwise had many of the experiences I did. But maybe it’s time to return to that earlier self.

Ain’t much between the 1st and 15th.
A saint of sawdust fills the room,
remainder waste from a half assed job
of fixing things or making new.

Weekdays are checkpoints manned by Fog.
The cupboards are filled with peanut butter,
elbow macaroni, and thyme
arranged in there by cataracts.

Living within your means makes for
a flat black terror and still water dreams.