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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