Wednesday, June 22, 2016

LIFESPAN

I.

Punk-as-fuck

cardinal,
lickity-

splitting,
practically

spits his red tousled

crest at the
driving rain.

Can you
even

handle—
going home to

write about that?


II.

Is it just me—
or does

this moment

always feel
like

the exception
to some rule,

chiseled into
rock (for
emphasis)

in one of those
foreign languages

you can read
but don't really

speak very well?


II.

Loose lips keep
sinking
ships,

as if

that
was the only
option.


III.

I keep hearing
my own
dumb voice
saying

"I like to mix it up."
Which, it seems
to me, implies
a next time.

So, wow,
maybe
we
are

in agreement
about
something
after all?


IV.

Perfectly balanced
On the shoulders of giants,

A man
So small you can't even see him—will keep

Slamdunking 
the same

clock into every new blue 
ray player,

until he's rich 
with old.

When he dies, he hopes 
to come back
a bird.

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