after Ansel Elkins

Carabao **** isn't permafrost,
temperature, disdain — climates
stirring into a tornado soup
of force, melting, seclusion.
In the heartbeat of gulls,
the waves gargled froth and
spat on charred limestone.
Then the grass beneath our
wet feet writhed in the
slice of wind atop the hills
of Hiyop, in Catanduanes
where roads go unmoored from
their skiffs like violin
strings curling under sharp
slide. You can invent a new
word to describe transformations,
but these will never catch it
in the act — the moment
vibration somersaults into
howl, when swinging grass
is louder than jetplanes
then suddenly quieter than
prayer. I like to dig my thumb
into the soft marsh, dirt
occupying the folds, creases;
labyrinthine pathways of skin
blanketed with Earth.
At this point the mountain
knows me;
and I dare to know the
mountain but come short, reaching
only its narrow berms,
pockmarks,
and ****-ridden sheath of
dry flowers cooking the
words to a song of its
people.

It’s a short walk from here
to Sneads Ferry Cemetery where
the bored to death are buried -
I go there every now and then
and read to them a poem by Lorca
the fortunate who died so young -
bled beneath an olive tree, a fascist
bullet to the head, no pain, I envy that
his fast demise, no boredom -
or surgeon’s knife to try to slice
away the little flowers of the grave
I would take his bullet any day -
before I’m bored, before the blade
before I claim a plot, or take up space
here in this ******* boring place.

In 1957, a respected BBC news program
aired footage of Swiss peasants harvesting spaghetti
from trees. No, not the squash– the noodle.
The BBC phone lines were burdened with calls,
viewers from all over wanted to know how
to get hands on their own spaghetti tree.
A successful April Fool’s joke.
A nation laughed at its gullibility.

Not too many years ago, a coworker’s whole office
was foiled. As in everything from his desk,
computer, pictures on the wall, his globe,
down to individual pens were wrapped
in aluminum foil like Sunday’s leftovers.
Cleanup was tedious
but he laughed the whole time.
This is April Fool’s, after all.

A good friend once–and only once–
printed up very believable medical lab reports.
He led his girlfriend to believe he was dying of cancer.
When she burst into tears, he burst into laughter.
She didn’t stay mad for long,
can now laugh at such a convincing prank.
It’s April Fool’s, after all.

I told you I still love you.
You laughed and I followed your lead.
My love is such a funny punchline
but this is not the joke we wish it was.
The most random of memories of you
on the most random of days can still make me cry.
I am still in love with you.
I am just a fool in April.
The only joke here.