Sunday, August 26, 2012

[Poem] Whorl

 Today, a poet died
 Because he lost all of his questions.

 Somewhere in France, a tire exploded,
 Delaying a young girl's tour.
 She’s burst tears,
 Caving around a fistful of euros
 As she senses lost moments

 Just over the next hill
 Floating, a red balloon.

 There she imagines Joan of Arc,
 A bicycle thief and Jacques Cousteau.

 A street that's been there
 For centuries.

 Elsewhere, a little boy becomes an artist
 As he sniffs his first jar of tempera
 Handed out by a young teacher from Hokkaido
 Unaware of the seventy two tubes of oil paint
 He will use in his entire lifetime.

 Today, I'm waving at a crow in Como Park
 As if my hands were semaphore flags
 Signaling "Hello," like a transient grey alien

 Wondering what a bird has to do to become
 reincarnated as a writer the next time around.

Yesterday, a girl I knew changed her hair color
 Insisting it made a difference, handing me
 An antique birdcage she found in the street
 Its curved door broken off, a rusty smile for
 Curious dogs who don't know what to make of it,
 Howling in a Frogtown alley devoid of poetry. 

From On The Other Side Of The Eye, 2007

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