Poetry thrives in the ache behind my eyes
after a day of sweeping,
weeping at the rhythm of each new song on the playlist.
Poetry bathes in the brassy bubbles of a concert hall,
eating up alto voices, healthy and raw;
Sporadic, unexplained static–
Poetry is trusting a feeling and betting it all.
My poetry pays rent in a pop-up tent
under a busy overpass,
growing like marram grass by a brackish sea.
It dwells in the mosaic empty spaces left behind
by winter’s nudest trees.
Poetry thrives in the battle cries;
a canvas for people repressed.
After a famous shower,
poetry is horny and undressed.
Poetry panhandles on street corners;
breaks rigid rules;
defies every dictatorial threat.
It bikes further than fantasy
and flicks its finger without regret.
My poetry always drinks another cup;
poetry likes it dirty and rough.
Poetry sticks, and pricks, and lasts.
It sets sail without destination,
on the ship of life, poetry’s the mast.
