Chew
I focus on the window when I chew.
Not what's outside.
Just the panes and paint, maybe a latch or lock,
sometimes the drapery.
An artist might eat the rain clouds
or pinch the snow off the mountain tops
beyond this lemon scented glass,
but it's nice in here too.
Our boiler man came last week,
we had to get a new one,
and gave me the card for his brother,
a tile guy.
What umbrage! What balls.
Even though people know
a good hard wood floor
when they see one.
Everyone's just trying to make
a buck off of everybody else.
I bet if you wrote your name on
the first dollar you ever spent,
odds are it'll wind up back in your pocket
sooner or later.
To The Lost
I want to crumple up every thought I have, throw it in the fire, and see those ashy dregs reveal themselves as Napoleon, Plato, Jesus and the lot. The rubble years in the making. We've got to wonder if Van Gogh crawled away slowly when he saw the other side of Starry Night, its blank white backside, and knew right then what no brush could touch. We are just animals with enough color to keep us warm. Beethoven went deaf, love was just lines on a page, and when his eyes went too he knew nothing but hunger like the rest of us. The world is much the same place it has always been, but that growing abyss between truth and beauty, sweetness and light, and Heaven and Earth will keep growing in the corner of our eyes until we hunt it down and shake the loose change that's been missing from the start.
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