Thursday, February 7, 2019

Going Solar


does a poem write itself or is it constructed
out of clean white socks
all holes are holy
but the holes of socks
are wholly anthropocentric. Butterflies tie my shoes
while the sky walks around in my head
and yes, I believe in petunias
no one wants to hear heavy metal

this early in the morning. Am I
too old to write poetry?
the goal of a piano is create tigers

of sound, but that of poetry
is to propel words
through caverns of thought
and come out the other side
sticky, like peanut butter
as sidewalks bounce on my tongue
I take a romantic position

and put it into strains of refractory tuna
I’m fascinated by distance
who doesn’t occasionally need a little astronomy
age has little to do with the orbit of Mars
except as a form of parallax
in the great kingdoms of the sun
where I can smell the fresh odor of rain
after the storm has rolled its way further east
and the sun

spits its light into space
like a poem. Shelves everywhere loaded with books
it’s the gravity of the situation
here I am crawling toward you
will you accept
these words? I’m suffering
from an unbridled hedonism
although nothing is official until I put my shoes on
and sunlight comes out of my mouth 

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