Published: March 4, 2010


Maybe what I should have been doing

was flying

bouncing around this old world

spreading colors as fast as my fingers could carry them

powders like curry and lapis, crushed

Vermeer’s centrifugal force

or eating sand and laughing my heart out til it


tickling you, definitely, always tickling

Parting ways with loneliness

and arcing into the cold

with swollen voices

brimmed with light and some kind of magic,


poring over Plutarch,

reinventing the invented

painted cream with columns and majesty

hugging the dolores

keeping them warm with heart’s candlelight

ears open like a day-and-night lily

(if there were such a thing),

instead of holding on

as if it were some sort of ride

to be dreaded

a grip so tight

that the knuckles were white, strained

and sad.

Maybe what I should have been doing

was flying