quantum love
use the speed of thought
to reach behind the dice of time
or to pierce the skin of chance
in moments thick & played by air.
horizons vented with former fall out
cloud the floor with mushroom worries
breath has inertia and the air a resistance.
your wings flap and a phone rings -
at 9:26 i felt you at a distance.
high zen bird laughed
at uncertainty principles
in magnetic fields warmly bombarded
by accelerated particulars,
& our universes collide.
& i now know the truth ...
that nothing actually touches.
because we've mixed our vast empty
with a skin so thin it
melts as it flashes.
somehow the constellations
of freckles, moles, & speckles
that mark and distinguish
our same toned skin,
wet and vibrant in the steam
of our bubble bath chamber
match.
i just know they do,
and i'm in no rush to
figure out just how
to fit so it meshes
just so but let's try
another of the quarter million
delirious yogic positions
again real and soon.
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My name is yrdog4now. Admittedly it is not what my father calls. Nor for that matter what my sons call me. Not only that, but what my sons call me is not what my father calls me. This may explain why I do not have a statue of dad on my lawn.
Recently the plot got even thicker. I bugged my "dad" to send me my adoption
papers. Now I know my name. It's Frank Drake. Not Art, Otis, Alex, dog, Cooper, or any of the other monikers I've gone by. Identity crisis? Nah. To whatever extent the idea of self isn't just a provisional illusion I remain "me". As for my identity as a poet, well, that too is entirely provisional. What's
in a name anyway? |
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