Poetry
This is how
you inspire me
to death
This is image
and word, a fist
and its dissect
deep
prime cuts
of life
on
the operations table
shouldering
the doctor,
as patient:
...Chairs,
single filed
gray matter, turned on paper,
and the time... It takes us...
we pick up the score
along the byways
blushed with emotion,
and cosmic relief,
extra sensory
reflex
solving viscerally
for some unknown
prismatic Y
crystal stoppered,
in colored perfume vial
called, "Eternal Rest."
(To cover the smell...)
And this is how
you inspire me
to try
once and again
to be righted
from the carnet
by example, or
demonstration
reboot, and a
stepping back
into vacation
because
that is the nature
of the A-l-i-v-e-
it leaves,
and makes space
for imagination
like electricity
in hot wires
needs adept
technicians,
who can pair
safe and kind
to avert
the jolted shock
And like
a magic bean
small and dark
you certainly
don't seem
the part
to keep us up at night
watering
the celestial garden
(hey ...stars don't
grow by themselves,
Mama)
and so we'll be renowned
in our own fabled yards
reclining,
we'll catch
and play
(after all
we are dogs)
the lyric we hear
from inside
is the leash
that keeps us, unmastered
Do I need to go on....?
I'll be at the vault
and you'll be rerunning
the human song
in your heart
somewhere far off
with big wet syllables
of our shared
arrhythmia...
punch by punch
of every
small reunion
that is final
in itself,
when held up...
for inspection
we might've been
in sync at several points
and that's enough
to tune us
in, into the pattern
of the infinite
on either side
of the platform
disbelieving, we'll be here
again someday
(never twice
the same way,
like Lightning McQueen
is a strange conglomeration)
And this is the way
you inspire me
to death
by idea...
I know a little girl
once about this age,
who's given name,
"Ms. Fortune,"
we tacitly acquiesced
as familial indiscretion,
or didn't even
notice,
because
the namesake
in cloy reflection
would own us...
if cited as Mistake.
Still,
we don't chose
optimism,
either...
We opt for
Marquez Realism
of things
retold
to ourselves
by a future us
when they seem
to happen
I mean years later
on recollection
of the aftermath
while measuring
out chicken
liquid
spilt...
when I will shrink
like a hot washed
cashmere sweater
of your favorite
thread baby
bear,
you'll look down
and hold my hand
like something
fragile
that a verb
might break
but doesn't,
and you'll think
in borrowed verse
how things travel
along the spokes
of a unicycle,
person to person
around a pinnacle
of thought
no matter how small
the kernel
this how
you inspire me
farther...
as miracle
neither child
nor forefather
nor sibling
nor other
just a
long pause
inside
dialog
.
.
.