DANCING THE CRAY-CRAY
People do crazy shit. Now I am people.
Better late than never! I write this poem
for you, perfect person in a panic attack.
I write this poem ‘cause when I danced
the cray-cray, this poem was MIA. Perfect
people go crazy-crazy ‘cause when they get
all cray-cray, there is no poem or tattooed
cray-cray friend to say: we’ve been waiting
for your cray-cray heart to grab the wheel!
Here’s the good news: you will never smugly
shit on cray-cray again, and you will comfort
the cray-cray, as this direct poem hopes to do.
Here’s the bad news: before this mortal panic,
your life was a lie. I lied, that’s the best news.
FERRYING
Would you rather
be paralyzed
from the neck down,
or dead?
I awoke with this question,
and thought:
that’s a crazy-ass question.
So I made coffee
and sat on your quartz
in the garden;
waited. The birds sang,
I sipped;
shoveled my toes
in dark soil.
I kept thinking:
dead, or paralyzed?
Pick one, a voice said.
A honeybee sat down
on a petal of your pansy
and wiggled her ass.
How does this honeybee fly?
Another crazy-ass
morning thought:
but there it alights
again, insistently:
wherever the hell you are,
it is your fingertip
ferrying this honeybee
flower to flower.
SAY
Before your first sunset,
after a second wine,
we’d walk the goat trail
to the secret bay, watch
the sun pulled over cliffs,
and naked, we’d slip out
of the mouth of the bay,
and into the ocean’s rollers,
where we have no say.
Again, the sun will set,
as I kiss your lips at last—
the gale is to the North.
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