A few of them out there,
or in there, are finished,
but more are in pockets. I call them
my projects, projected
by someone projecting
a light beam, a weightless
idea. When energy's
light, it is fast-running nothing.
It slows when it's spun in
to something. Inertia
increases with mass, and
it's natural for things to
stop moving when mass is at 80
percent. That's still 20
percent airy nothing,
a ratio giving
you - nothing. But heavy.
Your pockets are full but you've - nothing.
A front cover, sure, but
the back is the one with
the price tag. Thus Mazes,
and Regency, Spoilers
Ahead (or behind?) and thus Patron.
Et cetera. But sometimes
you finish, and empty
a pocket. A poem
a day's still a project.
100% is an April.
Thus sounds, resounds, the darkling airy spume,
the sea foam gusting from the mouths of men
who once bestrode, colossi, giants, hulks,
and Ozymandii, the earth; thus crack
black waves 'gainst cold notched graves. So dies
remembrance. So I learned from NPR.
Who let the dogs out? Edward Cullen? Rats?
No matter. It is done. A baby yawps,
and words, like works, like jazz, like Yonkers, foxes,
papa's panic palace, Austens - die.
But they were real. But they were real. But they
were real. Their authors should be proud. Hooray!
I'm emptying my pockets
I'm zipping up my sweatshirt
I've got my keys and wallet
gonna spend the day.
I'm tying up a bindle
(I guess I am a bindlestiff)
to hold my socks and kindle
I'm tramping towards May.