LUNCH WITH EINSTEIN

LUNCH WITH EINSTEIN

My poem isn’t a story about my life,

it’s petty silent dictator

making its own reality sandwich

in the middle of the night

holding sliced words hostage

at the edge of a razor blade.

Ergot on rye. Hold the mayo.

Until you, dear reader,

dog it down to the bone.

My poem isn’t the edge of night

seeking daybreak in another solar system.

It’s asleep at the wheel, or corrupting time,

teaching it to bend, taking no prisoners

until it becomes an acrobat

leaving the world tied in knots

for an eternity to come.

My poem isn’t the cool depths of the sea,

it’s the raging heart of the volcano

shedding scalding tears into the ocean

to whip up some primordial soup.

It’s out to lunch with Einstein,

noshing infinite storylines,

breathless and late for work

breaking the speed of light,

without a licence

because there’s no tomorrow

holding it in check.

3/8/95



first draft
PETTY DICTATOR

My poem isn't my life, 

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 always breathless and late for work, 

wanting to spend the day nibbling on storylines 

as if there were no tomorrow. 

March 8, 1995