You betta recognize!
sometimes it all comes full circle:
a beautiful sky that you can’t see the end of
in any direction; even the ocean
mirrors me in its watery face.
I believe in it all now, the magic
of the things nobody sees,
of the things children tell us;
the wind remembering who I am.
A shower, then sleep
enables a creep to feel clean
and to dream, napping soundly
through the rest of the night.
I am coming to you
to listen and listen,
to fill up my eyes with you,
to make careful observations.
I am coming to you
so I can disappear quietly
when you have something else to do
or if I can be of some help…
I am coming to you
very soon, even now
as we speak I am sending my soul
forwards to find you, my friend.
I am coming to you
as a Bat and a Dragon,
as black as the night or of coal
and wishing that I was there already.
I am jealous of what you think:
all your monsters seem terribly attractive,
something to devour me right –
I mean, correctly.
you’re untouchable and yet
I know
that I’ve striped you
like being disembowelled with a Katana;
one white stripe, or a purple one
for you to look at
because I love you.
Him, the wind, is rattling my door
Like someone trying to get in.
I think that someone could be trying the knob
But it sounds like only the wind.
I want to write you
with my soul;
like a piece of bread
soaked in wine;
to stroke each word
like painting a lover,
then stand from the canvas
and murder myself
for ink.
This is all new.
All of this is new.
I am new, you are new;
to discover, each other
again,
like children at school.
throw it all away
and find something
to expect nothing from.
I hate so complicated a tangle,
snarls hanging in other knots
of responsibility and expectation.
find a river to listen to,
to die by.
arranging my stuffed animals neatly
seems to rest my mind,
giving it a stump to sit on.
curled up on my bed,
I wall myself in with
bodies stuffed with fluff,
still so little in a big body.
as a poet I tell you
my dreams and what
I think about,
and certain selected fears.
I write to tell you these things,
and I pretend
that you are listening.
not so different
from anyone else.
I would write you a poem
with a paintbrush
to show you how soft
your eyes are
right before they twinkle.
bad girl
stole some bones
and feathers
to control
the weather;
to send the clouds
and the wind
to smell out
what her boyfriend
was doing.
I slunk from the sea
late last night
to stand in a moon-dappled room
under a broad-leafed tree
to write these words from the ocean,
dripping and streamered
with ribbons of seaweed,
leaving the smell of wet salt and wind
behind for the forest
whose paper this is.
stepping from mushroom top to mushroom top
I find that I am smaller than I had thought.
looking around for anyone looking at me,
I grimace and kick myself in the ass (grimace
meaning turning purple and fat and shapeless
and hanging out with Mayor McCheesy).
I then continue on my way,
sighing across the tops of the funky fungi forest.
the impulse is to touch the heart;
just a gentle breathing
with a mist of poetry,
enough that if read to one’s self,
you would read it over again,
and maybe cry a little
to see the same beauty that I see in you.
once upon a time I was a youth,
no corpse dream thing, tiny and small,
but I was as big as the world,
bright and unbuttoned like metal.
so anyways,
I bend and I breathe.
the sieve of my skin leaks the sand
of my cloud life;
strange clouds, odd clouds
for people far away on cliff tops
to comment on and guess shapes in,
to play drums into rhythms for.
clouds of youth dreams;
light pouring through in great angled falls
touches the ocean far below me.
in awe, I flood across the sky.
a spider slowly connects the dots of stars
to build constellations of ships
for wistful sailors of empty seas.
I have been marked
as a Dreamer of Dreams
by the slow writhe
of the One on my skin,
by the keen pipe,
the language of the whisper.
I have been marked,
or so it seems.
you shake
your mental booty
at me and
you
know
it.
sometimes the voices get faraway
when I sit in the sandbox and play.
I don’t know why I pushed my trucks
around, I did it anyway.
day comes near and bleeds on me.
all the trees, all the frogs
leave in little ships
labeled by the experts.
the flowers tremble but
still no wind on this punctured shore,
wheeling through someone else’s sky.
I stopped after the rains
to listen to the silver frogs chanting,
who I could never find
when I wanted to watch them sing.
I could hear their beautiful piping
from my little room,
and I fell asleep to their chorus
in the light of the sun setting.
some frogs
toyed
with the human
by croaking
once, twice.
then being quiet
as he looked
around.
I shot my poem
with a bow I strung
high away in the air
up over the sun.
I fly when I’m lonely
with no one around.
wild spinning up softly,
ending up on the ground.
I am
read to a man in a wheelchair
who smiles and laughs out loud
because
he can remember.
I can remember
mixing the chemicals
then taking it.
I lay claim to
this piece of earth.
something to
lay my picnic blanket on
when I’m dead.
sometime when
I don’t feel so lonely
and afraid;
somewhere to
rest my head.
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