My poem is full of beans
hopping from idea to idea
like a frog in the neighbor’s lily pond.
My poem screams lunch in crowded doorways,
always looking for the obvious connections,
executing them at dawn
for being ordinary and plebeian.
My poem makes words march across the page,
it doesn’t take surrender for an answer,
nor white flags of truth.
It doesn’t understand the reasons behind boredom,
or closed doors, it’s a thief
stealing small pieces of your soul
and it scatters it on the streets
to feed the pigeons when you’re not listening.
It jumps up and down like a flea in a circus.
It’s as old as time, yet younger than an egg.
It’s as mean as spaghetti strap slithering down
the lost arms of the moon, its heart is punctuated
by stray semicolons and its dream
is to discover lost continents of words
to ride them home and put them away
dog tired and wet, useless as toilet paper
with nowhere to go but down the drain.
I possess the sound of the wind and my invention
is the voice of forgetfulness, of Lethe,
of sleep, my mask grants wishes,
singing the names of the wind.
My spirit guide is lost underground
looking for the beginning of an idea.
I keep going back to the mountains of my dreams,
sleep as light piercing a pool.
The animal inside the reflecting pool
swims across my heart.
I invented the process of time and the songs
issue forth like the mottos
written above the door to my heart.
The last place on earth I’d want to be
isn’t anywhere; it doesn’t exist
except maybe in some godforsaken backwash
where no one knows the reason why they were born,
or why they’re alive.
If I were granted anything,
I’d take the money and run,
hellbent for leather with the rain
pouring down on my heart,
with the rain pouring down on my soul,
with the rain pouring down, down, down
until I drown in the wind’s thoughts.
2/15/93