Eggs Lead to Heaven

The excellent egg sat on the table unable to move

for it was the solstice and it was in a planetary groove

It sat still just for a moment, it couldn't dare to fall

Oh, if I could be that egg, when I'm challenged to stand tall

If I could find inside myself a true north compass trail

A magnet to guide me toward Heaven

a road where I can't fail

I would crow like a rooster

and shake it like a Hen

just to read that special map

again

I would go to Italy I would go to Rome

I would go so far that I'd never come home

Dipped in star dust wrapped in galaxy

moon dust in my shoes.

No More Promo

I am interested in self-development, not self-promotion.

The walls with the magazine images cut outs of me

plastered in my mind my Facebook celebrity

they can all be painted over with a giant roller

The small seance altar made to me, with fake flowers

and charcoal graffiti, dripping where it rains,

the buckets of notes from the misguided fan clubs

even the resentment for not being seen as a pyramid

by the Sheiks--

it can all be thrown out.

In the desert, on a camel, smoking grass, talking to the Pope on the phone, 

he roams, my other half, sweeter than the deepest honey

and taller than the greenest tree--

I will hang out in this desert,

improve,

and wait for thee.

Grow a Poem

I am not so sure that poetry is anywhere close to self-development.

It's not the same as picking up new shiny pennies off of the street

or even whole dollars, crumpled and stepped-on

and giving them to the homeless, although I would argue

that that isn't mercy but merely an attempt

to wash one's own karma in a non-threatening way.

It's not the same as pausing to think of those with less

opportunity, and being grateful. 

It's a rabbit hole wherein to bury the thread of ego 

follow it into the depths of soil and soul

plant it there and see what giant flower grows.

Poetry is much closer to gardening, for that reason.

Grow a poem. 

Impressionable

On the whisper night, that dark cloak

stuck to my back wet with rain, there

I hear the damaged raven gamble

to talk to the sky again

To his mumbles up in trees

I hum along a melody

not knowing of course

that what he sings

is a strange ode to me--

he calls like a parrot

to the ghost of my past

like a dirty white sheet

thrown over the clothesline of sorrow

to dry in a Camus sun

doesn't he know

as he mocks me

that time has already made me

come undone?

Kindess

In the boat of the world

kindness is the oar