I like the way language always feels like.
It is getting somewhere. It feels
like waking up. Getting lighter. The smack of dawn.
Against your back.
The dream that ends when you wake up.
Is not insignificant. Think.
It is like an airplane
going down. Because you woke up.
All those unreal people you were.
They are suddenly on a plane going down
because you have to go to work.
You senseless monster, go back to sleep.
Rescue their unreality!
Your boss will understand.
I like to be born and I like to bloviate.
Yadda yadda. There is a cave
with a tiny Plato inside it.
And I go there every day. I find the dark
subterranean roses. And I bathe them.
I use the old tub I was born in.
It is battered and makes a horrible sound
when I drag it across the cave floor.
My cave’s neighbors think that is me
clearing my throat every morning. What a nightmare!
But it is impossible to explain. So the neighbors
in the next cave own my heart unlawfully.
Things that turn cold.
To help you. On your way.
I am in the back half of the forest.
Where the radios are still playing.
I hadn’t known. The forest is facade.
Stagecraft. The trees props. The birds
do not know they are script.
Extras. Background artists.
The radios high in the trees. Nailed there.
The fruit is heavy with the hands that hold it.