A Difficult Conversation

Happiness is a cradle.
No, it is a cage.
What are you,
a consensualsexual?
Yes. No. Marbles!
God, why can’t I be
a Monarch butterfly?
Mirthful, merry
in all weathers
as a booted drunk
bound for Mexico?
That’s the life!
Hopeless, a mind
all of paper
reads itself
over and over,
folded like newsprint.
The sky itself is a cradle.
I am a blotto bird.
This is a poem.
“Call me a taxi,”
said the tree,
“before I die.”
We meet in a cave.
The sky is a cage,
blue, moving.

I’m Taking a Sky Day

Oh, I will admit it.
I want to fill my lungs
with starlight, and do
nothing all day.
Shrug the world off.
I want to percolate
mossy smoke and sing
softly to myself. I want
to be full of the talk show
of stars, their muzzy-headed
sort of interstellar gossip.
The stars talk about nothing
all the time. And seem happy.
I want to be in the world
and not all day, to hide
like the stars behind
that upside-down blue
cup we call the sky.
You will know I’m secretly
behind it, watching
absolutely everything
turn all day, watching
you, as the stars
secretly watch us
all day. If you really want
to reach me, just aim
your voice at the blue.