I am not accomplished
Says the grass below my feet
I have no curriculum vitae
I have only my DNA
My wild successes my wild failures
Everywhere I burst into flames
People slash and burn me
Animals heedlessly dung on me
Some of those animals have MFAs
I could teach a workshop on “How to Be Grass”
But oh who would come?
Probably only other grass
That lacks the confidence to know what it is
That it’s already the same starry stuff everywhere
I would just let wind into the room to awaken it
And maybe we would do The Wave
To bring home the metachronal rhythm of all existence


Someone had to invent the paragraph. It didn’t naturally exist. I meant to tell you I was watching the cottonwood trees shedding their dream of world domination. They release their DNA on the wind as films by young people do. It was a billion selfies on the wind today. I felt I should carry an umbrella around for the poetry. The stupid poetry of it all! They grow so tall, those trees, that they threaten houses. The catkins’ seeds are airborne and every block looks like a Japanese woodcut of falling snow. It is the Floating World. But it is a new spring. I step off the curb whose shoulder the white fluff is crying on.  I see you in a window, high up. You wave to me with a stapler. It looks like a vaguely homicidal gesture, but I will take it. You are talking to me again.

The Amoeba

I am soaking in a kind of solution
like a world. A kind of “I” is soaking,
doing something like, in a sort of world
of likeness. A world made up of likenesses
that talk among themselves. A likeness world.
How alike I am is just how real. I am soaking
in a kind of solution like words. The words
are there, but there is something more. That jelly
of besides might be the real thing. But I can only
cipher it, race towards it through more liquid doors
of liquid likenesses. Every time I think of the world, a fissure
occurs between me and it. I’m multiplied. I’m more words,
protoplasm. I ooze towards the truth and some part of me
that broke off might get there. But it will never know
that some thing like me started the process. The memory
that goes forth is only a simulacrum of a self,
and it finds my primitive speech something extraneous
to my animal, something to forget. I am on equal
footing with the pseudopodia of the amoeba
when it comes to the inner writer’s opinion of me:

“tl;dr” said the DNA to the organism.