perhaps this is a poem,
or ancient prophecy echoing thru the ether,
or page three hundred and twenty five
of the federal tax code,
or too much caffeine,
too much ambition
perhaps i’m walking the block
in hi-tech shoes of direction and destination,
or maybe i’m just spinning the earth with my feet
this might be september, and the moon
is shaped like a riddle,
too big to smash with a hammer
this might be a fish bowl
and i’m just another fishy citizen
working in a fish-stick factory,
i eat and shit and work,
swim and shit and pray
for god to come and clean the water
this might be the sticky afterbirth,
or the moment of climax, or the wink
of spanish fly in a young woman’s eye
with a young spirit hovering over
a faded blue buick with steamed up windows,
young spirit waiting to enter
the motel called mother,
this might be the right circumstance
in a misfit context
this might be a daytime tv talk show,
this might be a keystone cop’s movie,
or both
(a grainy black and white
big hat, billy club
rescue of the whispering
whimpering mr and mrs damsel
tongue tied to the railroad tracks
of tv guru voodoo)
this might be a snow globe,
and i should feel foolish
for not believing in fairytales
this might be candy-hopscotch-la-la-mountain
where happiness glows like a crack-pipe cherry,
where catfish swim with dog packs of dolphins,
grapevines sing songs of festival wine,
and all the spy satellites hold hands and twinkle
together,
this might be a motor-home graveyard,
flat hills of empty shells and gray weather,
dead center of humdrum,
where hummingbirds forget how to hum
and drop dead
this might be trick photography
or the rare occurrence of natural magic
(behold the mighty onion,
a gallery of curtains,
unwrap the mummy from the mummy and wah-lah!
no more universe)
perhaps there’s another universe
that looks and smells and dances just like this one,
except no one there writes poems
about onions (let’s go!)
this might be leap year
and all the leap frogs are leaving the world
to orbit some other mud puddle,
bum around limbo, fill their hearts with stars,
drink too much supernova and rediscover disco,
get too heavy with philosophy and fall down,
tomorrow it will rain frogs
this may seem crazy,
but this might be someone else’s fever dream
and i’m sleeping in the wrong head
this might be the day before i die
and i’m here to cast the first stone,
to fill my coffin with novocaine,
comic books and last minute field goals,
perhaps it’s the end of the world
as we know it and
ʆi… ʆfeel… ʆfine
this could be or perhaps it should
be, or maybe it once was
long ago,
all i know is
i misspoke, tried to sing and choked,
bit my tongue so hard it made me cry,
and i can’t see anything
very clear
maybe i’m writing a poem
maybe i’m inventing my own miracle
