(For full experience press play on the vimeo video below poem text.)
Somebody better wire
the pigeons before they turn into
bluebirds without hamstrings
in the fifty meter race.
is the only word for
these feathers, these flames
whose lips scorch
the otherwise purity of touch
or taste of cinnamon.
How far can the mind go
grounded by flight —
an egg without freckles,
as weeds in tall frenzy,
a tail without sulfur,
lovely as the wind without any clothes on.
When ivory bends willows,
the thrush becomes a blush
before such threadbare threnody.
I am less happy with these fingers
unless you like them –
then you may have them
eye dances and fly
older than a stone tablet
found at the base of an
Egyptian pyramid. And yet, you are
more welcome than a dovecote for nesting.
What makes this secret I will not say,
or all the grains of sand will fall back
into the sky as sparkling dust. Nothing
should interrupt this monologue
so effectively as an orange landing
warm on the moon.
How did you ever come into this poem,
except through a door in the mind?
And now all the water-colorists jam together
in a flood of amber Japanese lanterns,
each commemorating the dead
who will not go away until everybody learns
to spell their names correctly.
The task force is landing, the balloons are going up,
the shogun is using whiskbrooms
to chase the spirits away,
while bubblegum explodes across tarmac
snarkier than steel drums in Haiti.
[Disposable Poem April 8, 2004]