This Body

Who else has used this body of mine?
These hands and eyes and feet?
Which journeys did they take?

In what life was I a clown and in what life was I a King?
In what life did I drink blue drops hanging from a leaf?
In what life did the rose of the sun stain my wild legs?

Which year had me impervious to thought
listening to the frogs croak from the grave of night?
When did I lay in the orchards of the stars?

Or has this body always been used
just as it is now?
For purposes other than its own?

Waxing like a Laureate: Poetry Secrets of the Pros

Need a quick fix for that sonnet your stuck on?
There are a few words you can throw into
any line to make it more poetic.
Try "sky" or "wind", "leaves" or "flowers."

The stars always give infinitude.
Oceans, trees, clouds, and the moon
can make any line soar. Birds are the poet's
best way to talk about himself. Fire is surefire,

be it a roaring flame or one quiet little candle.
("Little" is a word that can work wonders)
Most of all, the heart.
The heart must always be mentioned.

The heart flows with the finest wine.
You can pair it with anything and it's good.
Rattling heart, rickety heart,
beefsteak heart, the heart as an ocean.

Watch as I put these techniques into effect:

The Moon makes
a sky of cool fire.
As birds moan
oceans of stars
my beastly heart
again goes trundling.

See? Pretty fuckin' poetic.

Oh, also, sunsets and sunrises.
Anything nature does really.
The poet is supposed to be alone.
Nature gives him something to talk about.

Easter

Jesus Christ, son of everything,
needed a woman on earth to be.
The man he did not need.
The man he was,
and the mother followed him
all the way
to the grave,
the rebirth into light.

Space Shuttle

Waves o'er the waves.
Waves u'er the waves.
Waves waving to us on the shore.

A space shuttle destroying itself
to get to the stars,
causing it's own earthquake,
a big fart of fire
speeding it through gravity's
invisible leash,
another violence only possible
in the 20th century.

The quails calm on the wires...

Arras

People sitting on the steps to the river;
spectators come out to witness the sun decant the night.

The lights spark to
on the Brooklyn Bridge.
Offices, on all day, formulate
as the sun fades down.

It's something their cameras can't see,
chomp, snap and flash as they might,
how, as the day slips gracefully
out the back door,
everything glows.

It gets away,
the pallor drains.

There is a light
nothing can hold onto.