48 Reasons To Write Poetry In A Time Of Aliteracy

Because words walk out of my hand like coins of fever
And the washer grumbles like a cargo plane taking off from Guam
Because lightning paints the wall with apocalypse
And staircases have implications
Because making a list of reasons for something that doesn’t require
         a reason is inexplicably convivial
Like a skeleton with scraps of paper stuck all over it
Or a catcher’s mitt turning infrared in a dream about pretzels
Because morning is a horse in Belgium
Because the dreams that clams dream are impelled by harmonica
And glass disturbs the rumors of the highway
Because whenever I make an incision in the air a charming
         sidewalk topples out of it
Because I live in the House of the Rising Sun
And the incident rate of odometer fraud is a nebula of alibis
Because there is no way to describe alpaca except with a bagpipe
         and a stepladder
Because vowels are hooked to consonants in a mathematics of
         sawdust and glue
That shine among ships and thicken into life at the exact moment
         there is music clasped to a lip from 10:00 o’clock to eternity
Because hot showers feel wonderful and T-shirts and shoes are
         marvels of sartorial conception
Because truth is slippery and cold and cognition suits the shape
         of the human skull
Like a string of sausages
In a marketplace in the highlands of Oaxaca
Because the sands of time are crucial to cooking
And consciousness is wet and goofy
Because an organ tugs music from a stone and drags it into
         beatitude
Because photosynthesis is an effective way to eat the sun
And rain converts to puddles on the ground
Because the formula for landscape is visibility plus trees equals
         the love of motion
And there are leaves scattered everywhere on the ground running
         the gamut from scarlet to gold
And comets and diplomats are displacements of electrical energy
And Hawaii is a backache
And lava chatters of heat
Because the sound of the alphabet flirts with immensity
And a pitcher of water imitates clouds
Because I feel powerfully alive each time sunset unveils the night
And curiously sad when I get out of bed
Because whenever an American male opens his mouth to speak I
         hear something dead inside
And whenever I hear an American woman open her mouth to
         speak I hear something frightened and dangerous
I hear incandescent capillaries sewn into a sonnet of blood
Because the Pacific ocean harvests a violin
And parables help us understand the sensations which arise from
         wheels
Because defecation is an enigma more puzzling than baseball
Because airports bananas and little white clocks
Because mahogany is a beautiful and imposing wood and the
         Skookumchuck has cut Centralia in half
Because joy is a mood but life is a feeling and true power comes in
         the form of a strawberry
Because death speaks the language of birth
Because if you thrust a jacket onto the couch it will remain there
Until somebody moves it
Because understanding dust is not the same as comprehending a
         complex emotion
Because echoes in a famished soul develop into libraries
And ankles are miracles of bone and cartilage
Because the little finger thinks it is cleverer than the thumb but is
         not and must be pitied
Because pink is in turmoil and clarinets are immune to drums
Because there is mustard on the accordion and thought is smeared
         into words and the firmament speaks to the mountain in the
         language of thunder and hair
Because jellyfish wash ashore and the hooves of the horses leave
         imprints in the sand that resemble the crescents of the moon
Because destiny is the eggnog of shock
And coffee is eloquent and black
Because Jeoffry my cat is not named Jeoffry at all but Toby and
         Toby is licking himself under the lamp even as I write the odor
         of beef stew fills the apartment and traffic lights would not be
         as effective if they were round like balloons
Because to Hegel the life process of the brain is the demiurgos of
         the real world and the real world is only the external,
         phenomenal form of the Idea translated into forms of thought
And muscle is predicated on bone
Because whenever the word ‘ground’ bends into the word ‘urethra’
         I feel that something wonderful and strange has happened and
         so desire to see it put into simulacrum of floating where I howl
         with laughter and men search for honey in magical Gabon