ovoid

the mamas bring the

music and the light,

 

stroking sweet-

ness into being,

 

inoculating against

the self-made man.

 

every where you look

is a circuit board

 

waiting for

lightning.

 

the stars are

still inebriated.

 

i keep my hands

at 10 and 2

 

as i measure

you, ride

 

your war-

torn body

 

past the banyans

into the sunrise.

gallery of the unfinished

the miles move like the years;

the trees climb themselves.

 

when you go, the absence you leave

behind will not last long—the mutable

 

shapes fill in. if you want

something to last, say so.

 

the world takes care of itself,

but will also love you back.

 

 

waiting

i wrote that poem

while sitting in a

waiting room. every

room is a waiting

room, really: a moment

wanting to bloom, to

become, to sing forth

like a glass of warm

rum and a night of

stars. my messages to

you are one-way, like

prayers—red-eye wishes

in a bottle, floating out

to sea—bobbing, whispering:

see me, see me.

 

annealed

i was fired for the first time

on poem-in-your-pocket day;

 

or rather, let go—dropped, free-falling.

perhaps fired is better: lit up, burned,

 

refined. there is no paper in my

pocket, but there is always a poem;

 

and even on this day, i am

going to write myself out of

 

my misery-worry and ride that

sudden drop of uncertainty,

 

that guttural buzz of

—anything can happen next—

 

and it will. and it always does.

next year at this time, on poem-in-

 

your-pocket day, i’ll be in a brand

new place, filling up my brimming

 

pockets with brand new

words, words, words.

burn all the money

you write me into existence with

those beautiful veined hands;

 

your phantom sweetness bleeding

through to greet-create me.

 

this world was made to be free,

to be met head-on with abandon:

 

rolling down a grassy hill, throwing

all your gold over a cliff into the sea.

 

do you hear me? all we need comes

from the earth; every-thing we eat:

 

grown up and out like what we know

in our roots to be the ancient

 

trees of self, of

abundant anti-greed.

 

 

 

need

i am standing in a sugar field

waiting to be sweet.

 

i fixate in the blur of

your raw hands on the

 

sheaves:

 

pulling, picking,

tasting, shearing.

 

i take my head out of

my hands

 

so i can hold the

tea, breathe into

 

its steam, feel the

container of its

 

memory.

 

i am power-

less against this

 

need;

 

it picks up warp speed as we

amble through the cane

 

toward the punishing

sun.

hands down

we are out of time ,

 

inside this anatomy

anachronism .

 

on the outside , the

wind tunnels

 

persist : digging away at

our cells ,

 

hunting those

seven years .

 

you have the right to remain silent :

 

to triangulate temple , tendon ,

tomb ;

 

spirit whipping

through .