They want you to love the whole damn world but you won’t, you want it all narrowed down to one fleshy man in the bath, who knows what to do with his body, with his hands. It should follow, you know this, like the panels of a comic strip, we should be belted in, but you still can’t get beyond your skin, and they’re trying to drive you into the ground, to see if anything walks away.
Becoming a poet means being alert to the unforeseen, the unintentional, and the unsuspected.
Whatever might come into your mind that you do not quite understand, whether it’s from chance or by blunder, from luck or by miscue, is often the very summons to write a new poem. If you reject such unanticipated flashes or banish them from your mind, chances are higher that you’ll decrease the likelihood of writing poems that you’ll care about. Turning away from your own mind is turning away from poetry.
I wrote you differently.
Not stereo loud, not humming,
or the sound of a feather falling, silent.
I wrote you when as a child I would look
for seashell fingertips of the ocean.
Borrowing, listening to parts of you
no one hears and falling for the waves
like heartbeats, I would say,
Let me steal you away.
Let me take you home with me.
there is a women in China holding a black umbrella so she
won’t taste the salt of the rain when the sky begins to weep,
there is a 17 year old girl who smells like pomegranates and has summer air tight on her naked skin, wrapping around her scars
like veins in a bloody garden, who won’t make it past tomorrow,
there is a young man, who buys yellow flowers for the woman
in apartment 84B, who learned braille when he realized she
couldn’t read his poetry about her white neck and mint eyes
there are people watching films,
making love for the first time, opening mail with the
heading of ‘i miss you’, cooking noodles with
organic spices and red sauces, buying lemon detergent,
ignoring ‘do not smoke’ signs, painting murals
of his lips in abandoned warehouses, chewing
the words ‘i love you’ over and over again, swallowing
phone numbers and forgotten birthdays, eating
strawberry pies, drinking white wine off of each
others open mouths, ignoring the telephone,
reading this poem
someone is thinking
someone finally understands
they never really