I can lay mostly exposed
with the wind dancing over top of me
under a threatening sky
I can lay
and watch birds express their fears
watch trees
drunk
and swaying
I lay ignorant
and in indignation of time.
Her weeks, her months, her years.
Month: August 2014
Orion
there
in the empty space between stars
you have a hero
whose name I forgot
one without substance
without sway
without thought
it slept on the floor
of your hospital room
hammered the clock
and gathered the broom
in the heat of the evening
it will evaporate
it will take its warmth home
to the nothing of space
where it tries not to envy
your love for the sun
and finds itself lost
when the storm is done
I am a big fan of the word pussyfooting.
If you drive (without pussyfooting)
every day
for two years straight
one day you’ll find yourself guiding a wheeled projectile, in excess of two thousand pounds, in and out of traffic at break neck speeds, as comfortably as you might find yourself reading at home in an armchair.
If you write (without pussyfooting)
every day
for two years straight
one day you’ll find yourself twisting the structures of the constitutions of the minds of strangers (and your own as well) as effortlessly as if you were recommending a good book.
Essays from an Aging Youth 