Vertigo

    We're travelling down a carnival road, are met at intersections by
    varying faces: poets as eyes in collapsed black holes, even the
    universe as extension of the stellar poet. Then, they are transformed,
    become worm-pickers, masons, longshoremen who subsidize their
    poetry with the real task at hand: making waste, laying trestles
    instead of women to prove a point.

    This is necessary. I'm defending it, find it both believable and
    interesting. Meanwhile, troubadours and wandering minstrels eke
    out a living on storybook memories, join Marco Polo if he ever
    lived. Seek out the Great Khan in a box of cookies or within a
    magnum of champagne depending on circumstances.

    The Grand    Lunar is watching. Her pallor commands true poets to
    roll over, gaze at silver buttocks make a commitment to the art
    beyond spray painting, ghost watching, navel gazing.

    The sky is the final home of the soul, the Sage himself a wanderer
    announced.

    It was a warm spring evening. Lilac bounded from antler brown
    twigs only recently inert. Everything dissolved at once into crying.
    The world itself became a tear.