Friday, May 17, 2013



Alcohol, sex, and this cold spring night in their blood,
the rowdies outside the Crown and Thistle have taken
their chilly elations home. Past midnight, the town quiescent,
the moon, Venus and Jupiter set, the silence of the stars
through the window, mercifully voluble, and an underworld
of new insects are being pawed by cats, crawling across
living room floors like robotic space explorers as
foggy threads of miasmic lyrics are beginning to unfold
like leaves that have never given a poetry reading before.

Who knows? The blossoms on the municipal trees
could be the beginning of fame. You write enough words
you get paid back with a name you don’t quite know
what to do with as if someone had just discovered your skull
like an unknown element on an alien planet. Trick is
to let people hear themselves in your persona the way
a cave returns everybody’s voices to their own silence,
or water returns the moon to its own penumbral seas.

My old familiar, the train whistle howls
at this witching hour of the night like an honorary bush wolf
and I can feel the roots of strange flowers probing my starmud
as if the bulb of my lilaceous heart were about
to break into light again like a poem that’s lain
prophetically dormant through a long winter knowing
timing is as important as content, like the rent,
but spring comes and the frogs and the trout lilies,
the blue hyacinth and the apple trees bloom
like supernovas in distant galaxies, or drunks outside a bar.

So you can’t miss them like a sign of who you might be
when your eyes are open to the mystery of being here at all.
I save the history of the tree rings in my heartwood for the fall,
old orbitals I’ve jumped like an electron with a negative spin
to release a photonic discharge of light frozen like ripples
in a dark time as if I lit a match to see why the stars had gone blind
or the lantern of a nightwatchman looking for the light
with the light, his mind with his mind, his heart
in the ashes of the rootfires of his blood. Right now
I focus on the green growing edge of what I’m becoming
as if all the cells of my cambium were stars accelerating
like a universe driven by dark energy into the realms
of an unilluminated space that’s ready to receive them
like a new myth of origins that isn’t defamed by where I came from
and even less by this road that doesn’t know where I’m going.


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