“Do not be too moral. You may cheat yourself out of much life. Aim above morality. Be not simply good; be good for something.” –Thoreau

30 June 2011

The poem as a stream of conciousness.

what I write is crap today




this is my lunch break:

standing in the kitchen wiping up
masala leftovers
the edges of my right hand
catching drips
as it rubs the crust
of naan
into
streaks on the side of a takeout container
I waste the quiet daylight
sending cell phone images
of my cats
over the lines I never use to make phone calls
there is a portrait of our rabbit
leaning against the dining room wall
I took it down
because seeing it up
made me cry
packing it away makes me
feel worse
if that were possible
she died last year in her handmade cage
we could not save her from
the water
she could not keep inside her
our parents must worry about grandchildren
we have filled the void
meant for tiny human fingernails
with whiskers and the clippings of translucent claws
and I cannot imagine the pain
losing a child would bring
it is my husband’s birthday today
if the writing will not flow
then I will have to set my work aside
celebrations trump inspiration
when there is love in this house
sometimes I worry
the Gods
forget
the furred creatures of the world
when our wars consume
their omnipotent energy
there is nothing left
for a whisker
a translucent claw
I hope for fields of leafy greens
and piles of strawberries in the Beyond
wherever that fluff of cotton
hops to now
writing will not surge forward
when I am morose
but there is something about birthdays
which makes me weep
when I think of all the
creatures
whose birthdays are over
we lost our grandfathers this year
three of them
they could have told us perhaps
if it hurts to die
if the light which went out
of their eyes
was traveling forward
toward something even brighter than
a dying spirit
if there is anything brighter than that
after all
we always talk about death as a loss
because I think we know
instinctively
that we know nothing
about that Beyond place
if it is leafy
if it is sweet
maybe it is we who are lost
I think
wherever those eye lights are going to
they have surely found their way
by now
God
I hope so