Write a poem that drops me to my knees.
Strike me square in the face with a fist of birdsong.
Torture me to orgasm with silk.
Wet and moonless, the Japanese maple drips her pigment
onto a desolate, metal halide-lit stretch of road, until
pink-red rivulets parade ostentatiously toward…
The first time I was called a poet, I took offense,
for poetry is good for nothing: it neither
makes love nor wages war, nor pays the bills.
You may think it inconsequential that an empty
tube of toothpaste is not, if pressed, empty,
but has more to give of itself. You may prefer
odes to lofty ideas, or nature, or love…
In Guangdon Province a young father rises early
for work at Doubleeagle Industry Limited, where
he operates the plastic-injection molding machine.
It is rote, if loud and dangerous work…
I remember coffee-flavored ice cream at the Royal Scoop,
how it made me long to be old enough to drink espresso
like Dad. I remember stepping off the plane into the sweet
humid air, the tissue-paper feel of the Lei around my neck,
Falling in love is like swallowing grains of sand
to recover the pebble you skipped across the pond
by your childhood home, the ripples setting in
motion every marvel, every horror of your life;
Last night I dreamt of the perfect opening line
to a poem that would, I had no doubt, piece
back together the crumbling world. It was a line
that drew you in, breathless, that made you drop
everything—coffee, that online shopping cart
one click from arriving at your door—and pay…
I have put pen to much that I ought not have
written, including, perhaps, these very words.
I have mistaken Ragweed for Goldenrod,
alleyways for gardens, watched them torn out,
We are all mourners now, our clothes
funeral shrouds we tear off our backs
when the time comes (and it will come);
in one pocket we carry brushes for tidying
the graves we stumble on in schools, churches,
nightclubs, concerts, grocery stores, streetcorners…