Night Dance

for Henri Roussea, who knew by heart what he had never seen

Some atmospheres invented wings, some stars made planets
so a mountain laughed in the dark,
heart lumped in redness
and life, a knot of
“I want,” raw and velvet
in the afternoon.
Then love lifted
a hard question into the window so all who passed
could see it, saying
“Here is the painted moon the lion was under
whose exquisite sense of smell
led him to a large human being
with a small guitar,
sleeping alone in the cold desert,
but the lion wasn’t hungry, he was interested
in someone wearing a garment
with every stripe a different color,
he wanted to listen in silence
to the scent of armpits, genitals and feet.”
When the child of war rides her black horse
past burnt trees, and crows tug
at the dead and nearly dead,
let a mother tell the generals to end it.
Somewhere there’s a jungle
filled with impossible flowers,
immense leaves
in every shade of green.
There's a man in shadow
whose songs fill the holes between fictions,
a woman who isn’t afraid
when a marvelous beast approaches.

Jokes

Wolves enjoy a good joke.
You can tell by their teeth
so obviously used to penetrate
to the heart of any matter
finding the bone
sucking out the marrow
of a beast still alive enough
to wish it were otherwise.

Comics and Candy

Moreover the sky has stopped wishing I could visit.

It tells me I can stay for as long as I want.

I can cut down trees and wear shoes made of green suede.

I can eat pork rinds and ask for more time.

So now that it’s settled, thanks for the address.

I am a good person who sometimes needs a place to stay.

If a fellow drops in claiming to be my cousin

let him in. He is an old, close friend.

He sometimes needs a blue popsicle for his tongue,

which gets hot and tired from talking all day,

and then he runs his cool tongue over his red face

and gradually feels much better.

The tiger might want to come in as well.

He brushes his hair with a thorn bush

and wears a pink begonia behind his ear,

that’s how you’ll know it’s him

and not some other tiger,

also his eyes glow with a yellow gold fire

and his voice is rough and low.

My mother the clown will be coming later in the year

with her own axe, and boots made of rhino skin.

Her kind of clowning involves purple chiffon

with real silver thread woven in

and an unexpected, shocking, and ultimately funny

something or other,

that’s usually bright red.

Now I’d like to give thanks again for the earth

and for being able to stick around for a while,

and for all those who wish it were nicer

I say why not roll your birth records into a tube

and blow a trumpet to far distant hills

and wait for the echo.

Speech

I lost my way again

that’s why I can’t stop laughing

discovering items that may or may not

belong to me, or otherwise fit

not like an addict wearing a necktie

or a beast with a busted bone

like smoke, without specific intention

but with allegiance to form

I try so hard to mean what I say

to be inside my words

my songs carry across waves

I play with sound, I feel meanings

beads are strung into lines

that I wear to remember things

this is the truth, maybe

or maybe wind is my author

a hollow tree singing to me

my dna getting a good idea

water main

Beautiful Crow

Beautiful crow, you exist,

make your mark,

hide the world

in your feathers.

Bold companion,

true crow self,

your heart is clean,

a voice I aim for.

Playful relation,

return in noisy crowds

enlivening trees.

My heart needs you.