Willing to Be Ignored

For that drunkish rush of the words
When the pipes are fully opened,
And the ropes of lines whip around
Like snapped cables scattering sparks,

Like the end of any one line
Could kill you if it could touch you,
Like Whitman was uncoiling it,
And Dickinson was wording it,

And something vastly more ancient
Than countable generations
Was generating its power
That sang—This is what verses were,

You gentle idiot, meaning
Way back, before chants praising kings
Or gods or potions like soma—
Before all the storytelling

About anthropomorphic night
And day mating to make the world,
Before anything but the shock
That the lungs could be made bellows,

And the upper appendages
Could semaphore with the singing,
And together the body’s parts
Could create something called meaning,

Although the meaning was the least
Of the poem back then—beginning
To make an appearance, fermenting
The origin of the lightning

That would one day drive whole systems
You might call civilizations,
But still just sprays of lethal sparks
Firing from the tips of your cries—

All you have to do is begin
Hemorrhaging what comes to mind
In the way of whatever form
Of language you’re comfortable in,

Then keep going until you can’t
Continue thrashing anymore.
The experience can be yours,
If you’re willing to be ignored.

Remaining Escaped Is the Reward

Warble all you like
About the journey,
The destination

Has to be the most
Essential aspect
Of any escape.

The destination,
If it’s good, endures.
You needn’t go back.

The destination
Determines whether
You can stay escaped.

Life’s Weeds Wedge Enduring Seeds

To occupy the baggy days,

As Laing did with her gardening,

You origami lines instead,

Pleating, creasing, and sharpening

The minimal information

Typical of the lyric form

The way one might fold a napkin

To make a pointed corner firm

Enough to pick out seedy bits

Stuck in the teeth after lunch.

Shouldn’t that be what writing’s for?

To repurpose a flimsy hunch

To dig out some kind of nuisance

That starts trivial but can mess

With your focus and happiness,

Your health and life, left unaddressed?

It rarely works. The ad-hoc tools

Of napkins, poems, or greenhouse peat

Disintegrate. Weed seeds wedge deep.

But, hey, you filled some time at least.

Kiteezi

You share a world,
Though you only
Know thanks to news

Of a landslide,
A rubbish slide
That killed people,

Many people,
In this landfill
In Kampala.

The photograph
Looks like the end
Of everything

As surely as
Any movie
About the end,

Any picture
From a war zone.
You share a world,

You and that dump
And the people
Who work through it,

Searching for things
They can pull out
And trade to live.

The efficient
Exploitation
Of human waste

At risk of quick
Or corrosive death
Is one among

The many traits
Shared in your world.
Take out your trash.