Invisible Ribbon

She came out of the air, a rosebud trampled into the dust of the sky

the bird flew like it walked along an invisible ribbon

Pigeons used to be doves, long ago

I see them sitting on the roof of the steeple

sunning themselves

when they land

Spring is Time for Movement

The red rouge on her cheeks

was christened like the Spring

running wild this toddler

so fresh faced

her tiny legs like twigs

moving madly she

was giddy to be running

in front of Daddy

she ran toward me like a dream

unafraid

of anything in front of her

just going as fast as she could

as she approached I saw

her jet black hair laying on her head

as smooth as her face

pure innocence

not even kindness could touch her

because she did not know even

what it was to not be kind

this was time to play in the mud

Spring is here

it is time to run!

I think of my own life

compared

in my thick grey jacket

trudging in old blue jeans

my only motivation is coffee

and here is this child

shining like the sun.

The clock has ticked and tocked

on my face

small wrinkles might appear

where smiles have been

where angry faces were drawn in silence

where tears were wept

where fists were pumped

where exasperated sighs once filled my lungs

now there is silence

and the sound of birds singing.

Leaves are glistening

gleaming in the bright white sunlight

blink twice you need to.

It is time for movement.

The Difference

What would be the difference, if I took a one foot by one foot square and roped it off

and filled it with flowers brim to brim

or if I filled it with fire and then ashes

and we danced shin to shin?

The opposite of marriage is not divorce

it's space

and I could take my mouth and fill it with stars

and never say another word again.

Coltrane Has Superpowers

Coltrane has super=powers

of this I am acutely aware

the bare face of God has returned

and my idiotic rampage of notes

has turned sour on the cacophony of greatness

My attempts to secede from the Union

have been met with Lincoln's hat

overturned and asking for change

on a Sunday my tithes are no good here

I will have to put leaves on the water

of the small rushing brook

and think of Walt Whitman

Native Jesus Vegas

Everything is completely flat

the earth is now a bed sheet

the Plains Indians the Native true Americans, are standing like lampposts

waiting to set my prairie on fire

the gun slingers out West have become

Silicon Valley

I might have to go to Vegas

not to be a gambler

but to be that stone faced pilgrim

standing on the corner

asking people

if they have found Jesus.

Word Play with Sound 1

Stevie Wonder and cigarillos

Willow windows and rooms of Jello

Scoops of ice cream

James Dean side lean

Hello

Jaundiced candy

dice and laundry in January

Handyman gangster

Plaid rug

Happenstance Dancer

Laced with fancy hamsters

Framed in damaged tantric

Yams on the Titanic

Frantic and handsome

he's coming back besides

bugs are stacked in back

cow hide

horses rancid

Rapt attention, queens

hacking jackets

with plastic acid axes

don't mention the mentor

the mesmerizing tin dragon unhinged

a tinge of the shadows 

pristine

Green

Gold

Heat

Who Owns the World

Who owns the history of the world

Its dodged bullets and its fireflies in jars

Its mad dog who-dunnits and the skyscrapers caked in concrete

breaking apart and me on my knees at a small desk typing

The angels are breaking apart her seance like an orange

The onion is peeled back

and I am a stark reptile

a baby bird yet to grow feathers disgusting as I craw for food

Gratitudes

I sat again and looked at my feet. The blood had stopped. I had farther to go. 

I slept and dreamed of nothing, but I had wanted to dream of outer space.

As a young girl I watched the stars and always felt I could go there and back. Now I now my feet are much more valuable than those shining lights.

I woke up and shook my heart like a bookcase, the gratitude falling out like many pages of a book, like the cleaning of a canary cage, debris flying everywhere, my gratitude, my gratitude. Falling and landing in space.

Is my gratitude merely platitudes?

It's an armor I started wearing to protect myself from the dark.

I keep seeing those damn lights, though. 

From the Sacred to the Simply Looked At

The sacred art:

the statues that were made by the basket weavers

the pots that were made by the statue-makers

the baskets that were made by the pot people

in the jungle on the plains

these statues came together

covered in semen and blood

they meant something

about the survival against the lions

Now they are in a tourist shop

built out of cardboard 

and I buy it and put it on the shelf

when on vacation.

The sacred writings:

Created in caves by candlelight

in dungeons dug by man

people died carrying the stones

to make this small coffin in the ground

where the monk writes

over and over again

These writings on animal hide

with ink from the eye of the octopus

and fine colors ground from 

the sea shells and the clay

painstakingly applied

with a small brush

made of animal hair

and attached with an animal glue

rabbit or egg

I lost track.

I see the images now

on a computer screen

as I glance for five seconds

before returning

to work and cat videos.

Life will go on

Life will go on

whether you write a poem or not.

It's Weird

I no longer 

want to be a poet

based on

writing a poem each day.

I, now stronger,

want to be a poet 

based on

how I see the world each day.