Monday, December 12, 2016

pipeline.

i take cover
under those palm trees

the experts say
they resort to

every once in a while
as is standard-
only i believe in them, is what's different.

i assign them a wisdom
i give mine to
so theirs will be greater than mine

to exorcise my atrophies
and grant me a sort of
passage

passage past nihilism
personifying a meaning

which i may rest under
and tell a story about later.

i call onto air.
call onto the rhythm of air.
air,

rustle the leaves of trees
tall trees

sending down stars
not imitations of stars one falls for
to
centerpiece-

it's some place
for tourists-

some place maps lead to, that is.

breathing is up to this, too. straight lines strangling
each other- that's how they grow
big and strong, hard to bend.

i go home, stand
under the trees. asking the trees
when i will be ready.
asking for patience.
teach me meditation. give a demonstration. tell me
if i'm doing that already.

rustling
under the trees
about how these are all giving trees in the end.
giving trees are what the mother has left.

asking the trees
if i've done this to them.