it's small dictator
making its own reality sandwich
in the middle of the night.
holding sliced words hostage on rye,
until you, dear reader,
devour it down to the bone.
My poem isn't the edge of the night
seeking the beginning of day
in another solar system,
it's the speed of light corrupting time itself,
telling it to bend the past
until it becomes an acrobat
in the shape of a human pretzel
and the world's tied up in knots
or an eternity to come.
My poem isn't that cool depths of the sea,
it's the roaring heart of a volcano
pouring scalding tears into the sea
to create the primordial dance of life.
It's recess, it's out to lunch,
It's recess, it's out to lunch,
it's always breathless and late for work,
wanting to spend the day nibbling on storylines
as if there were no tomorrow.
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