this is what a moment means:
turnip in the old black pot

a man in a kettle hat says,
“I loved her like she was 16,
only could cook, ya know
ya know what i mean?”

the sun shatters into a thousand
clouds of grayling white

a woman adjusts her garter
discretely in the back of the meetinghouse
the preacher says,
“The Father expects your best.”

a deadwater puddle
evaporates.

(Special Thanks to Laura & Lori for the help)

Poetry is free,
I’ve seen its cell – door open
deep shadows and rumpled sheets
where it tossed and turned.

But now, darling, she is free
delicious fingers of grass
massaging her toes
in the perfect greasy burn of sun.

Later, when the moon seems like an icecube
hanging in the vodka of space,

Poetry runs naked along the rough sandy
Unsure how long freedom might last
she runs

the vodka burns in all the wounds
of her long incarceration,
but she does not scream.
She laughs.
She is free.

Free in the wild
of books and hearts

Free on the tongues
of rare lovers who dare to kiss
the fugitive
drunk on the cold and hot
the life and death
the almost and forever

Poetry is free,
darling, do not wait in her cell.

I imagine every wing-beat sings
the serene truth, too wild to believe,
All this crazy existence rides on the wings of butterflies.

The wash of sun, from the top of the sky speaks to me warmly,
“This flutter, this dance, this kindness,
the thousands of tiny feet upon your naked flesh
is neither piety or sin – it is the announcement
of God in the moment.”

“Alleluia,” I think. I think
“Yes, I exist, blind and deaf,
alone and surrounded
by the heavy feet of those who dare not.”

I exist amidst the dream
a million thimbles full with chocolate pudding
in the minuscule hands of butterflies
coming furiously toward this perfect instant.

All of existence relies on
this madness of peace,
this impossible truth of love
and this wanton joy
that where we fly does not matter
so long as what we carry is sweet
and fulfilling.

we’re not making effective use
of the words given to us by all those dead greeks

Put on the toga, give up
the nudity and hide the sadness of flesh
behind linen

Become the philosophy that allows
a constant shattering of stone
into the pillars that hold up
the illicit edifice

What is piety?
Well, what would it be without the gods?

Where is the soul?
Where would it be if you had no body?

The words tatter into letters,
a dog barks

What is a dog?
Why is bark a verb, and noun?
What is the relationship between the meanings?

A man with large nose walks by
smiles at you,
what does it mean?

A bull in spain dies
upon the sword of a man
who has no idea about the minotaur

Whose life was more valuable?

Socrates has said nothing
it was all Plato

All Salvation was spoken
two thousand years ago
in Aramaic

why not Hebrew?
why not Latin?

He had dark hair
he was Jewish
why not greek?

Helios – the chariot?
The flame?
The God?

What is light?
What is holiness?

Where are the words to say
this idea that crushes the particles of air
between us, leaving something
more?

1.
a hummingbird
sipping nectar
from a big beautiful
blossoming gardenia

2.
Here is a complete list
of everything that matters – kindess.

I ask you, beg you, please
remember this list.

There will be a test later.

3.
in front of the mirror
a brush
pulling through long hair
eyes, puffy

4.
Here is the complete list
of everything you need to know – love.

5.
naked flesh
cool air
night does not come
quickly enough

6.
I only tell you this, so that you can not say
“I did not know
what i needed to know.
I did not know
what matters.”

7.
a tom cat yowls
in an alley behind a fish joint
“where is she?
where is she?”

8.
Excitement becomes fear
Fear becomes a sick pain
in the place between the bowels
and the stomach.

9.
three squirrels discuss running
through the thick grass
along the tops of branches
up the rough bark
into the holes in the rock wall
over the shrub
inside the attic

10.
The silence between
poems – you know it.

Shit.

It’s love.

There was no room here
there were no walls, no air, no light
no place for a soul to ball up and cry
no place for a heart to shatter
or a little death to cry out
merrily over and over.

Until the advent of words
the culmination of hope
the amalgamation of eternity
into trust.

There was no floor here
there was no ceiling, no definition, no understanding
no here for a man to be a man
no here for a woman to be a woman
and no new life
where numbers might become
colors. colors might become
shapes, shapes might become
bodies, bodies might become
spirits, spirits might come
together.

Until the advent of thoughts
The culmination of poetry
the chewing and swallowing
of the flesh
the digestion
that becomes
us.

Until the elephant
was painted pink
then purple polka dots were added

Until the sound of his trumpetting
burst from the no one
like the melody of salvation.

Until words became thoughts became the poem
became the elephant became the crux of the situation

Now there is room
for the elephant
and all he brings.

I believe in him.

And nothing bad ever came of an elephant in the room.

sitting on a plane
fractured and fractal
we look closer and closer
into each other’s edges
to find the detail
the defines the unique set
that gives us our absolute value

yet still, you are two dimensional
and too self-similar to interest me
beyond this bounded loop

the colors change, the moment
passes. We are interesting
and even, for a time,
interested.

Until the elaborate border
between us becomes recursive
and we slip away.