Hang yourself high in the pockets of anxiety,
nothing but lint, no heft of coin to keep you earthbound.
Scissor kicks and tearing, a work of papier mache’ of my printed words,
wets and slurs under the masters’ watery hands. Like she said,
even #2B smears, graphite fades, small particles of leaden sand to blow away.
Will I be a boat or only bones?
Maybe, just a red and black mask like the one the Balinese man made,
to chase away evil spirits, canary in a cage and the sweet of orchid and incense offerings all, et. al.,
canang sari of the bento-sized banana leafed gifts,
to be swept up by human hands next day,
like never, ever will it be enough, and yet, each day, with developing craft,
and a fear of slipping under, of swept-to-above, the weaving of Love,
are places, a space for a single yellow, candy, cellophane wrapped, to be tucked in,
decorate each and every stoop, after the monkey howls of night,
and I don’t know what happens if you’re a drunk man?
If your aunt, mother, or the young girl next-door is the one who,
protects you with her presents after your wife had enough of ringing the neck of dinner
having to be choked herself, the goosebumps, a plucked bird, only a chicken, until that bright and blinding day when the world buzzed by in a far-off hum,
what is hand-length becomes miles in her mind, that is not thinking, only following,
with the last and emphatic will to survive, a red kite, that has broken from its string,
an offering, a beautiful purpose.
Photo: Taken in Ubud, Bali