 |
photo
by Michael Corridore ©
|
waffle iron red, in herringbone smoking jacket
I am writing love poems in languages of silly string theories about past pain and currents of vain deflections, neglecting, rusting
my
goodness stops
at
the near edge
of
what talent I possess
I
can entertain small groups
people
gathered
for food,
drink
and perhaps
passionate
conversation
if
none of us become
too
drunk and horny
too
willing to share
our
provisions
right
away
these
groups must be
prone
to know vulgarity
as
a deep art form
that
silly can be
a
necessary vitamin
even
if in a mostly
broken
bread form
the
pope
as
well as
the
paparazzi
are
always
on
their knees
they
always
have
someone
to
please
so
silly can be
a
righteous thing
a
belly laughter
a
human expression
at
its purest form
all
the places
our
hearts demand
we start from
low
seeded palm
to
heeled whisper-
songs
with handfuls
of
soil tucked
for
just such
occasions
Love
is woven inside
and all
throughout
these
sub audio fields
Love
frequency-maps
our
leaps off
the
deep ends
the shallow mining
of our worn dark
our
fissures
our
light
our
rooting
into
what
Love
also finds
in
the concrete
outside
of windows
and
as I age
I
am broken down
by
clown rules
and
regulations
disbelieving in sentence
structure
for a faith in
throwing
my sneakers
over
telephone wires
to
know to keep on writing
while
wanting to plum-bob
every
depth I can
pleasing
myself
and
at the tattered edges
of
any salvaged self respect
I
maintain a rodeo skeletal
sinew
relationship
of
bare minimums
show-casing
royal jelly
and
beet pollen
in
a fondness
of growing herbs
drinking
fortified teas
and
counting syllables
scraping
odd smiles
for
a much longer
view
of how things
burn
into one’s soul
EJR
©
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