purple clover
in the shade of oak
a broken mower

teabags in crystal pitcher
rolling between iced cubes
until they melt

three fat black ants
on the floor
beneath the honey

the poor pus of anything
swims against the current
events. gray skinned and hoping
for something, damn.. some thing
cooler.

the porpoise of anything
swims even better with the current.
events do not gray, they become
vibrant. Hope becomes that alive
something that blesses everything.
Everything grows deeper
Deeper, and deeper
until that thing that was cool
becomes the thing that is too cold
for anything to survive.

humanity eats turkey
and says things like, “yes yes, of course
tomorrow, i promise”

so i choose humility instead.

humility eats tofu
and sings what it says in humdrum wordless tones like
“Laba laba lu laba lu … laba laba oo oo baby oo”

so I sing along as if
i know the words

Humanity laughs at me
because my toes are utterly perfect.
i denounce humanity
and wear a cardigan.

I say things like, “It’s always perfect
here in the neighborhood.”

Humility is disgusted, but still
my toes are perfect.

I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have just sung

labalu
labalie
the bloon
the blue balloon
the blues.. you loon
the blues… I lie.

Humanity is a prick, but damn, I love it.

i burn the sage
let the smoke carry you away

i burn the sage
let the smoke fill me with something
other than you

i burn the sage
let the smoke rise and fall
become everything I imagine
everything you are not
everything is the smoke
everything is the sage

i burn the sage
wisdom fills me up
and you are gone.

the tin soldier is broken
his paint worn off

where his face was, there is only a memory
trapped in a bump

i tell you, he is not me
but i am a liar.

i toss him in the trash
when you frown

the crab apple drops
rolls almost no where
the sweet smell of death

twilight  & tall grass
against the rock
two boys sitting

in an old camper
a boy and a girl
discuss grownups

around the willow in circles
and other odd shapes
kids playing tag

one jar
two boys
ten thousand fireflies

So, I have been giving this some thought lately. I don’t mean it facetiously. How does one write the perfect poem?

What is the perfect poem?

Who decides what a poem is?

Who decides what perfect is?

Does that matter?

Here’s what I’ve got:

• There is such a thing as a perfect poem, but it’s super-duper ultra secret and I can’t tell you what it is.

and

• The first step in writing the perfect poem – or the perfect anything for that matter – is to have an incredibly brilliant, startling, completely true and utterly amazing  thought.

Barring that kind of thought, the perfection of your poem is pretty limited, so you should give up on perfect and just aim for amazing or brilliant.

Anyone have more insight on this? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

a man is a monkey
is a monkey is a man
is a god is a grape

question is the vision
vision is the answer
is the god a grape?

a man is a man
a monkey is a monkey
what is the question
of God?