THE RAIN’S FALLING UPWARD
The rain’s falling upward
and I’m rooted in the clouds.
I’m rifting with the greening of my leaves
without a flute, letting my thoughts grow
like musical serpents each
according to their need.
It’s the snake’s turn to charm me,
to entangle me in its form
like forbidden fruit
swaying from my highest boughs.
In the chalky, moist grey air
I’m scraping my fingernails
down a blackboard like crows
because my desires are vaguely out of reach
and my mind is a teacher with nothing to teach.
I want nothing more
than the freedom of my own humanity
thumbing its own heart
like a well-read book
or a worn guitar I taught myself to play
when no one else was around
to hear the sound of one hand clapping.
If my mind brings forth an abyss
like a vast womb where there’s only room
for my solitude
I’ll slip into it
under the reflection of the moon
on the unwitnessed side of my eyelids
without abandoning the boat of my body
and drift like stars across the timeless spaces
of anywhere the light doesn’t taste like physics.
Being is Knowing. I don’t need a web
to prove I’m a spider
and I don’t need a constellation
to shine out like a star
when I’m not being humbled
by the blind insignificance of it all.
Even when I mean bees and earthworms
too often my voice
is an urn full of dead fireflies.
Yesterday’s astonishment before the stars
in the open-mouthed fields
comes down today
like chandeliers of mystic trivia
on a scarecrow who lets the birds
in on the joke
that everytime he begins to burn
in his fireless martyrdom
his tears fall like an ice storm
to put him out.
But I don’t always want
wisdom oozing out of everything
like the sententious candle
of its own enlightenment
even if I am wounded by the compassion of it.
Sometimes I am content with the futility of things
just as they are.