Is it mad to be mad in a mad world?
(Poetry is a homeless river.)
We float on buttered coffee and hook states, unaware of compass points and driver's license, steering only by the dim glow of tarot and offerings burnt over a cold sink.
(Poetry is collage; it only makes sense in the greater context.)
I cut flowers for people who can afford cut flowers when we can't afford food. I cut fruit for people who can afford cut fruit when I can't afford to stand here any longer.
(Poetry is a bridge that only meets in the middle when the overseer isn't watching.)
What isn't nailed down gets broken off and I'm afraid our gods hold no truck with carpenters.
(Poetry is play. Poetry is an overgrown garden.)
I'm a pair of legs in perpetual motion, always falling forward, never catching up to myself. I've sacrificed everything that brings me joy, save one. Family is all I have left.
(Poetry is a phantom, a dusty godlet, a will-o-the-wisp with a strange sense of humor, a pattern, a puzzle, a song, a prayer whispered into the air, into the ether, into the greater rhythm of a mystery I will never understand.)
I play. I sing. I bow beneath the weight of my misery. I listen for the songs. I listen for the pattern, the rhythm, the steps of the dance.
(Every poem is a song, every song a prayer, every prayer a spell, a wish, a divine overlap of patterns, puzzles, rhythms, the known and the unknown.)
I pray for wisdom.
I'm listening.
I'm listening.
August 12, 2025
