Piscesandthediamonds

You do not have to be empty. Go, now, to the high places, the thin spires of mountains and skyscrapers the roof of your house, tipped with snow, and fill yourself up with the air. Drink it in, taste it, roll it around on your tongue, feel it settle in the caverns of your lungs. Feel the dust and the ice crystals and the scraps of newspaper brush your lips, and fill yourself with them, too. Fill yourself up with the moonlight, the frost, the dusky rose of the rising sun, the night, the morning, the calls of birds, the sillhouettes of telephone poles, the shadows of people and clouds and alley cats that dance across the pave

bounding, more like hurried floating, these Kublai Khans on little discs. they ride on hurricanes, one each foot, which seem to flare in wood grain floors or else they’re pulled by tiny demons unexorcised ‘till dinner’s ready. there’s two chaotic ballerinas, stage right, stage left, i’m trying to read but here they blunder unabashed at supersonic lightening speeds. i can’t help but laugh for life when they steal their silly heads from silent rooms like fairy ninja and then pounce and flounder on the couch,                                                                         upset my drink,      

i return to poems i once wrote. my ghost is already there, taking all the credit.

to lose field and friend to the same emptiness is to unyield. to receive stone in place of children or wheat to grow old in this way is to harden. one night reeling from my long dead father's brandy i unspun the straw from its huge yellow wheels scattering its gold like a halo around the barn until a strafing sound covered the ground. without material the barn swayed, wicker as a petering out of oaks. before she died and after my wife's body was like a conch, her name unlike a name, her voice heard in all the almanacs of ear pressed to cold tabletop. if a moon finally messiahed down to the dirty ground, between h