BEAUTIFUL DAY. FREE OF THE WORLD. CLOUDLESS
Beautiful day. Free of the world. Cloudless.
A gift of my dreams, hormones, doesn’t
matter much to me, play with your theories,
More immediate and real. Events flash
like kingfishers and switchblades over
halcyon seas. Words rollick as if I’d
forgiven them a day off as yesterday
and the day before that to sing as they please
when dawn hits the tops of the morning trees.
I don’t care if life is good or bad, mascara
or mother-of-pearl. No doubt it’s sad, no doubt.
Still too aghast at the million subtle nuances
of suffering, and the horrors that cake like blood
to the past to have resolved the internal contusion
of it spreading like a bruise of deadly nightshade
over my heart. A body made for love. A body
made for pain. I delight in the absurdity
of the agony like a man who’s gone half insane.
Astounded by my awareness of anything.
The way I remember the columbine this spring
on the skull of the rock as if it had had
a hair transplant of a thousand lamp posts of grouse
sceptred on the crowns of their heads.
Memory’s the biggest challenge time’s ever faced.
I feel graced by the lack of intent behind
my intelligence, to have outlived all
the old purposes for being here that fell
like apples from a tree with a dull thud
softened by the stargrass in the middle
of the night when no one was there to observe it.
Protocols of the particle letting its hair down
like a wavelength on its own in the dark.
Who can imagine what the world must be doing
behind their back, out of reach, empowered
by dark matter that doesn’t make itself
readily available for interviews? Life’s
not a teaching device. There’s not a lot
to learn from suffering except you don’t
make things up that sell like greeting cards.
Silence heals what words fail to find a cure for.
It puzzles me to say it but poetry’s beginning
to smell like a corpse flower in bloom. O
the pollen of words. And yet the bees still knead
neonicotinoids into the most translucent honey
to fill their cells with like the petals of solar panels.
Feel like I’ve been walking through a valley
most of my life trying to have a spanky conversation
with the jawbone of an ass. I am not denigrated
by the size of the mountain of starmud, nor
the depth of the grave I had to dig my way out of
to attain a freedom of expression that echoes
among the peak moments of silence that speak
like clouds and eagles of the way we keep changing
creation myths to the fixed starmaps we project
like insect planetariums on the roofs of our skulls.
Further in. More deeply drowned. Gone beyond,
I rejoice without having any reason to.
Words wheel like pigeons over the wetlands
of invasive antennae broken by a lack of use.
The doorway’s been torn down that used to
let me in like a thief and throw me out
for the eloquence of my fingerprints
in a labyrinth of homeless thresholds.
Nothing but blue sky to lose my infinities in
and the sunlight crisp as newly laundered sheets
folded away like poems in the drawers of the guest room.
The mystery’s evolving somehow I can’t discern.
I’m uplifted by a fire that doesn’t burn. I laugh
as I scatter my ashes along a path with no way back.
First the rose petals and then the thorns. Just
the way the moon transforms its eyelids
from night to night like the cosmology
of star-nosed moles with divine telescopes
photo-shopping the lunar complexions
of their cover-girl conceptions of a black hole
that’s full of light, the waters of life in a housewell
but, who could have guessed, bright as they are,
know less than nothing about shining without
relying upon the dark to affirm it. Things
end and begin in the dead of the night
and the rest of the day is unimaginably irreproachable.