falls out while walking
There was a walk. And there were words.
Poetry, poetry. Words come out of the world, like a seventh-grade dance. Do you want to (dance) be a poet? East-coast Spring in February. Colors, descending planes. The jazz of birds. Who’s the conductor, I wonder? Or what?
To be called brilliant. Those things matter. Now, I’ll wear my art, right out in public. The way Elms stood up, majestic on my childhood street. With its birds and its colors and my flamboyant sangha.
Would I choose Hawaii over this city sidewalk? Is eating a requirement? Even on days when begging goes unanswered?
When I carry my gone friends in my heart, every day’s a day of the dead – Dia de los Muertos.
Don’t get me wrong. I dig living.