The greatest poem ever written
must be a love poem. There must be
a tongue in this poem, with its own
animal heart, and two lips that suck skin
like warm dumplings.
But. The greatest poem ever written,
also must be a war poem, where people
eat grenades instead of sandwiches,
where children remember their homes
only as lightning bolts.
If I build this poem on a mountain,
overlooking a dragon-shaped lake,
I cannot be afraid of falling
from the roof of the poem
to my doom. Instead, I must learn
the recipe for making a neon rainbow,
that floats like a fog between old trees.
There will be ghosts. After all,
it is the greatest poem ever written,
which means, people love people who die
and haunt their dark windows.
The dead return as green light-energy.
They sneak into our bodies at the feet,
then ripple through our legs
like an ocean wave.
We have sex, and we pretend
it is not the ghost in us
compassing our hips.
Because this is the greatest poem
ever written, it needs to be true.
We are already residents
of the insane asylum, a straight jacket
is the only quilt we own.
What are eyeballs? What are eyeballs? Are you an eyeball?
You are late to work.
You live in New York City.
Your bag is too heavy,
you are certain,
today will be the day
your collar bone snaps
like a carrot
from the ferocious weight.
You are holding a paper cup of tea.
When you try to squeeze honey
into the rising steam, you miss –
the sticky golden goo
oozes over the lines
of your palm.
You can lick it off
or you can throw yourself
into traffic.
I daydream of taking a long,
hot shower, while the whole world burns.
I stand alone in the bathtub.
Outside, tornadoes of fire roar.
Flames are arms.
Come and get me. Holy hands. Take me.
Photo by Sapan Patel on Unsplash
