They told us to leave our mark
In space ,on a wall with murals
Because if we left only shadows
They would disappear soonest.
And you might have to notice
Us noticing shadows on wall.
Each neck may have to swivel
Causing the neck bone to snap.
We may emulate tiny sparrow
With its swiveling screw neck,
And the fickle sparrow’s love
Upon a typically grainy dawn.
The sparrow notices its body
Within the granules of sunrise
But its love is grainy all times.
Love’s body is dust in a sunset
Leaves no mark on any space
And sparrows leave no stones
And the shadows left by them
Are too grainy for wall murals.
I hold a contradicting self.
I am a little too small now
And I forget what I say big
And whatever I say, I forget
What I contained in a past.
I forget my old multitudes.
And I forget I was the same
Bumbling contradicting self
A little small for my old self
So I say your coffee or mine.
And I forget I was too small
For any major contradiction.
What I hold is a little small
For saying, what I say a big
That I am a little too small .
Down into the wilderness , one feels
Less tongue-tied as our words shake
The wild bushes as if they are lizards.
Feelings are lizards less tongue-tied
And they stick out tongues in open.
In wilderness we are all tongue-open.
Words fly in the wilderness at a sky,
That hangs precariously on all of us.
We and lizards feel less tongue-tied.
Back in homes we are tongue-tied
In holes of space, unlike bush lizards
Under a precariously hanging sky.
In a wilderness we stick out words
Like bush lizard sticks out tongue
To catch its meanings at random.
You do not begin and let
The thickets of language
Speak in local tautology
Let the words be lonely
And strange and exotic,
Orientally in accidental.
Let all things accidental
Speak of accident birth
From one’s somewhere
Let the petals be loose
To fall from a loose sky
Feet up, to a wet earth
Let it drown in chance,
Your being an accident
Let electric fire engulf
Twist woman’s finger
Cut a baby’s life loose
Like petal loose in sky.
That his life is a Billy Collins
And his life is an open book
Opens a cliched poem’s turn
As turns are and poems are.
We’d better stay here open
Like lizard’s mouth on wall
What it does with the worm
Is a lizard’s cliche on a wall
Its shadow on wall is mine.
Billy Collins is the reader’s.
The lizard is a cliched turn,
After an open book of Billy
That is cliched turn for all.
Life is open book of death.
Death will be grand cliche,
After many cliched turns.
In order to have a colorless picture
We might as well have the big one.
Some place in the peninsular India
White clouds went truant in its sky
Some bodies went nude in capital
Near an astronomical observatory.
Black bodies in history go on sit-in
In America against a white capital
There is an acrid smoke over barn
And new white blood against black.
It is the same for bodies of all hues.
All things go up as colorless smoke.
Well, that one is a cool address
Scrawled in blue ink, on flyover.
There ,at the address, we might
Have had living sleeping dying.
But we have really not taken it.
We have taken living elsewhere
Sleeping and no more sleeping,
A proposing to sleep no longer.
At 124th pillar is a cool address,
Easy to recall down any market .
Some beggars lie in their nights
Living and propose to die there.
This one is a cool address to die
Easier for death van to pick up
And easy to blare spiritual stuff
As dead feet wend thro’ traffic.
We are not living to die there.
We have a smoking lake for it.
We love the cool address easy
To guide strangers to a death.
Many moons ago ,our moon and sun
Were small kids playing on sky-roof.
Their old hag grandma forgot they
Were playing in roof, when the sky
Was just this high ,anyone climbed
And there was only water tank in it
And in summer when a sun was hot
One slept in a sky roof, at midnight
If moon was not too bright for eyes.
Low slung sky would touch her back
As grandma was sweeping an earth.
In irritation she pushed the sky up.
And the grandsons ,sun and moon
Could not climb down the sky roof
All for the fault of a grandmother
Who swept sky up , so high in sky.
But all is well that ends well in sky
With sun and moon to cheer it up.
After our poems are written
We expect kismet to save us
From a boredom’s perdition.
We are too full of a waiting.
By our kismet we will travel
And be borne along on air.
Or we travel in a palanquin
With bride and groom in air
While the bearers will shout
Ko Ho Ko Ho as in folk song
Coming straight from heart.
Beauty falls in love’s kismet.
Palanquin goes up and down
Borne along, sways to wind
Like flower in summer sky.
We tremble as paper petals
To every breeze that passes,
Embrace kismet to be safe.
We try to make our own sense
As we dig deep, making some.
And we keep threading poetry
Like the inside out of a pocket
In our trousers from washing
With the remains of old flower
Like we probe washed pants
For a forgotten currency note.
We are mining our childhood
From what remains of a body.
We dig deeper in our washing
And find undiscovered holes.
We have just discovered wind
Hissing as in a mountain pass.