Every Single Word Is A Metaphor, And So Is His Name.
The brown, feathered Paddler trusted me—thought I was him. I breathed, waded that wet transparent Savior; therefore, I exist.
If we must fall in love
who stands a chance against the poets?
It is not thinking, nor the order of words that transcends Space, but Being.
The Man whose skin isn’t afraid of light pierces his fist below where we stand so we can chew the bright red growths of Home in order to blink, and move.
Tell the children why the Light lives in the sky by making them Thirst.
Turn stars into Feelings.
Pound feet fast and far until your two hearts smile, Real and Not-real.
Skin tries to melt into another, but Matter cannot exist in two places at Once, so they say.
Why isn’t existing enough?
when you put it that way,
who are the poets now?