Let the beauty and pain of the world spill over the coffee table and onto the floor.
Use the raw materials to construct a reason-
a reason for why my mother tells me
what her grandmother told her:
"Like cream you will rise to the top".
Make something of yourself out of the chaos
and jagged edges of the world.
Let the bits and pieces of reality loose
to align in nothing but piles and small bits.
Then tediously right all wrongs,
in steady and purposeful motions,
until you are but dust and granules yourself.

We're all authors
Typewriters
Pens
Pencils
Erasers.
We have stacks upon stacks of paper
Piling high
Of what we wish could happen
&
Of what really did happen.
We're all painters
Palettes
Paintbrushes
Tubes of endless
Reds
Blues
Greens
Blacks
Yellows
Whites
& in betweens.
We try to make a prettier picture
Of what's in front of us.
Try to take something ordinary
And make it other worldly.
We're all photographers
Polaroids
Camcorders
Film strips
Memory cards.
We capture the moment
And
Lock them in our hearts
Imprint them upon our brains
Because we don't want to forget.
We are all artists.
Because we each have visions
And create them
In order for others to see what we see
And
Feel what we feel.

1273

That sacred Closet when you sweep—
Entitled “Memory”—
Select a reverential Broom—
And do it silently.

’Twill be a Labor of surprise—
Besides Identity
Of other Interlocutors
A probability—

August the Dust of that Domain—
Unchallenged—let it lie—
You cannot supersede itself
But it can silence you—

your eyes are hurricanes;
they enrapture me in their
stormy green-blue shades,
they whisk me away
like alice
to your wonderland.

your lips are earthquakes;
each quiver
of those perfectly curved lips
make me tremble and shake
inwardly
and my knees buckle without
my knowing.

your hands are tsunamis;
they travel up and down,
a mind of their own,
aliens.
they caress every curve and edge,
study every detail of
the skin
over my muscles and bones.

you, my dear
are a spectacle indeed.

Treasure in forest,
Water dropping crystal beads—
Dew on wild orchids.