I have this thought that the dead are more true
then the laughter of rain,
or that sudden silent smush
of ripe sunlight dripping on my bedroom wall.
In the apartment above my head
someone groans in a bathtub of barbiturates.
The drug company just listed 82 dangerous side effects
to their new designer drug that is suddenly popular.
I glance at a book with boiling covers bubbling
on my kitchen stool.
I put on the rooster hat a child gave me
and my coat made of glass.
Out in the streets I think I see a dwarf
dressed in rusty mail drinking grog —
but it is a stolen shopping cart.
I sadly remember the cherry-skinned peasants I saw
selling honey and socks at a Bulgarian marketplace
as I walk amongst dead-eyed shoppers with plastic
suits at the mall.
The wind lifts old dirty posters and makes them flutter
like white butterflies on a brick wall.
Suddenly turning a corner that isn’t there
you appear, as if balanced on a bridge
between two worlds, a basket of laughter
in your hands. It overflows with red
suns and starlight. I see by the way you move
that you too love to dance in chocolate bunny shoes.
Taking my heart between your hands
you slowly blow a blooming tree into my bones.
I don’t know how you do such things
and ask, “Which way is the door to Valhalla?”
You smile and ask, “Who have you killed recently?”
I say, “The one who refuses to hurt and believe.”
You lift a corner of your dress and reveal
bare skin running like a freeway
towards the wild, pink mouth of God.
With that, I fall back into innocence
and the second world.
I just wrote this, again after meditating on one of Kristin Reynold’s
poems. (She is soaring.) So I’ll dedicate this to her continued emergence into second sight and the worlds within worlds. And to you, who read this… May imaginative Love blossom us all, this year, into a better world.