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What Is That Book About? #3


And now I am writing, in a smaller book.

But you can’t read it, and I will not talk about it yet.

And if my voice has made it to you, my small

persistent chirping, a cicada near an airport

—poets, we are happy with the dull clunk-clink

of the coin you choose to drop into the busker’s

open case, playing her feather touch

on gravity-tight strings of a red guitar

on the age scratched pavements of LA.

Although I am unsure if the municipality

allows street performers, I picture you,

on the footpath with the handprints

and shoe indents, the gold edged stars

set with a ground crystal of cement

—the telling is truer than the thing told,

and a man will beg and a woman will go off

in a huff and regret it all her life—

but you know that isn’t entirely true,

it can also play out opposite, or two

positive poles and a current won’t flow,

in the all day and night noise, the roaring

large transmission of industry, more than

poetry will ever achieve, the telling is truer

than what is being told. I am creating cavities

inside persistent noise to appreciate the quiets of poetry.

What Is That Book About? #2


The little book I read, as we are captained by your mother

in the vehicle as it travels the narrow black strip

of these few years we have together, today beside

the Tasman Sea, sock, and salt smell, of you,

in your headphones, engaged in tablet games,

and short enough still to have your feet up

on the dash, not bored with your parents yet,

is also about placement of the sensation,

the containing and defusing of the feeling

of the fine sandy gold and copper grains,

the black & petrified woods, the clear quartz

under black roads for the life of the highways & passing lanes.

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