A
Viking wrinkles
In
black boots and steepness
Is
implicit in the stitches
Of
a woman squeezing a sponge
I
like butter it’s true it improves
Everything
especially scrambled eggs
Gaudy
as the misunderstanding
Of
coffee. When did you ever
Completely
understand this beverage?
Tea
has a delicacy that doesn’t fit
The
rage of the morning and its awkwardness
Rubbing
against the hair of the leg
With
all the muscle it can muster
I’m
throwing an idea at you let me know
When
it arrives. I’m learning how to feel
My
arms as I hold a stack of books
We
answer the call of our skin this way
Circle
ourselves with the colors
Of
consciousness and take care of the personality
In
its interactions with the world. My forehead
Glitters
with violins when the wind blows through it
Poetry
is the mushroom growing beside the rock
Is
this the right spoon for this emotion? Or should I use
A
knife? Dive into books. Slither through the words
They
mean what you want them to mean, so work them
Into
agglutination. This is what ganglions are for
We
initiate ourselves in cocoons, enter them as
Ideas
and come out as airplanes. Don’t sneer
At
ears. I tell this to all my friends
I
seek depth in understanding. And drink coffee
In
the light of my anarchy. I want to be social
But
when I’m in conference with a ghost
I
just want to dawdle at the table until the waitress
Brings
me more coffee. Honey it’s the same
As
the spaces between the bars that keep
The
tiger caged and the words are splendid
When
the nerves release them
No comments:
Post a Comment