What Things Really Are
In this world,
cows are beef
and pigs, pork.
Trees are books,
chairs, and paper.
People are water
and water is oceans.
Oceans are trash dumps
and trash dumps are islands
of buried treasure.
Light bulbs are ideas
and ideas live in a cloud
between smoke and
raindrops. Raindrops
are acid, and they fall
on silos. Silos hold grain,
also people, keeping them
apart and silent. Grain
is for bread, also, gluten.
But everyone wants to be
gluten-free. Corporations
are people, and people
are nothing. But corn,
(did he say porn?)
Corn is everything.
When Does the Sun Get Tired?
Green fields never tire
of turning gold. Bare trees
never tire of new leaves.
Snow drifts and melts
without the slightest worry.
Rain falls but does not want.
Bees do not regret their honey,
and birds sing on the last day
the same as on the first.
The road rolls on and on,
with endless asphalt energy.
A fence will stand, even
when it must turn. The moon
pulls the weight of all the oceans.
Stars outlive themselves, grow faint.
The sun gets up each day
never tardy, no complaint.
Is that because it does not move,
against our constant spinning
but only seems to rise?
We trudge, we toil
we lag behind, exhausted.
The sun just glimmers,
burns a hole into the sky.
Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Writing Poetry, But Were Afraid to Ask.
Start with
a word
a wisp
a wafer.
Start with
a sigh.
Start with
arrowheads
and shark's teeth.
Start with
pottery shards.
Go for any thing
sharp, but also,
elegant.
Get a basket
and load up
rhinestones
that are drops
of dew on
morning grass.
Observe
a sea so blue
it hurts your eyes
not to look at it.
Persevere,
like a gull
who holds itself
perfectly still
on the arm
of the wind.
Then,
touch down
on wet grass
clutching
your pencil
and paper.
A poem
will come.
Give in.
Give in.
