What would happen if we stopped trying to make sense
and started trying to make?
Creation is war against static.
My body is a temple
My God watches Adam and Eve mourn in a spray painted garden on Bowery
with only His third eye weeping.
I didn’t know He needed eyes to see.
I wait for the children to laugh
before crossing Avenue D.
There is no punch line,
but timing is everything.
I’ve heard it said
if you do the same thing over and over
it will get easier.
No two snow flakes are alike.
The bottoms of my feet are hot,
my hula hoop leans against the bed frame.
I carry my french army bag with me
to the laundromat,
and call brother to say hi on the walk.
There is one grapefruit left in the fruit bowl,
next to bananas and clementines that orbit around
each other each morning. The banana is the moon.
My grapefruit is Jupiter. My socks are stars,
my fingernails are atmospheric sparkle.
Creation is starting from nothing every time,
it never gets easier.
My insides ache the ocean,
I can hear a poet moan from across the Hudson.
I pray there is a moon opening his love
like a flower on an island made of stars.
We are galaxy.
I am moon rock.
Dreams are food for the hungry,
love letters floating above a war.
My skin is love song,
my veins are home bound.
We are all of us broken,
scrawled across some bed of truck
or body of lover like a name tag.
Like we belong there.
I belong here. Next to school desk
and spilled dresses, crumpled poems
and half jars of water leaving rings
Tonight I am nightstand
pillow and mirror,
tonight I am bookshelf
and the clothesline
is my lyre.