Friday, March 31, 2017

ADMIN.

The light, arcing yellow 
around the 
bright kite wind

on which surfs 
the weird bracing spring smell 
of streets decomposing—

sensations like these
feel just like
the money in your pocket,

useless lumps 
while they're inert, 
currency 

that must be
moved around 
in order for it to matter.

But by now, you've 
learned enough 
to be shrewd:

you can't exactly
sell beautiful things 
on any sketchy street-corner,

but you can't just go around
giving them away 
for nothing, either.

You're a missionary now,
whose objective is—
the dispensation

of ministry
without religion,
of gospel

with no ugly
liturgy attached,
of godawful, 

bloody, and
ritualistic sacrifice 
that plays itself off

as inconsequential, 
is performed 
on the daily, 

with a smile 
and innocuously off 
to one side. 

Poetry
can never be
anything

as off-putting
as a vocation;
it's only a little

hot oatmeal 
on a cold 
spring morning—

wet eggs 
and dry toast 
for the drowsy  

emaciated planet,
when it finally 
wakes up 

feeling hungry again
after fending off
the stomach flu.

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