Happy Poem
She looks good working,
she knows she’s sexy—
unlike some,
she’s been told she’s sexy—
unlike most.
Rigor and beauty swirl
in a glass cup.
When cups shatter, they cut.
I’m sorry I said I couldn’t write;
it was a lie.
I was waiting for someone like you
to come along,
to get me thinking,
to happily fill out questionnaires—
and then disappear like misty roses.
Why not experiment with powders?
A blanket is a blanket is a blanket:
to cover, to hold, to warm.
Some are patchwork—
pieces of something else,
stitched together to make
something whole.
In the mix and brewing,
there’s wonder, there’s faith.
And I feel a note—
soft, round, velvety.
Is this the voice of the moon?
What did she call it?
Isn’t her voice so special?
The sound of love—
the Moon loving the Earth,
the Earth loving the Moon.
But can you cut yourself
on a piece of the Moon?
Because I’m going to need
a bigger bandaid.
I heard the songs,
and then you sang them.
A short song.
A birthday song.
Until the 31st—
Is that Halloween?
I’ll dress in costumes for you—
finest leather, finest silk—
so I feel gold.
How incredible,
I’m writing again.
It’s incredible to have
a conversation with oneself.
There’s a mask.
Under the mask, a veil.
What truth hides beneath it?
Is there a truth god?
Because I need some help.
Is that enough?
A rock gets stuck in my shoe,
and I think of you.
I didn’t know that.
You didn’t know that.
We didn’t know what it means.
Creeping into my periphery,
like the cats I see,
like the fruits he does.
Are you a spirit?
Am I in the spirit realm?
Nope. But I get to lay a finger
in the waters,
breaking the wake of light.
Somehow,
water turns to wine
around me.