Poetry thrives in the ache behind my eyes
after a day of sweeping,
weeping at the rhythm of each new morsel
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 nudist 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 or map;
on the ship of life, poetry’s the mast.