Corpse Pose
The position has to assume you, like a fever, or a favor, or a black hole swallowing its own ballistics report. Like trying to believe you deserved even a single afternoon two years ago, with an old friend ascending the micro-climates of Pacific Heights eating oysters. Your jail cell is made of harp strings. Nothing deserves your skepticism more than a mirror. If you start here, in the middle, then any progress will grant you both a beginning and an end. Open and close your eyes and sweep the front porch of your face. Standing on the moon, you’d weigh less than a toddler where the extended forecast calls for no weather at all and the coffee tastes like sand, so best to admire the majestic from afar. You don’t have to believe your own story, you simply have to believe you’re the only one who can tell it. Instead of deleting the digressions, erase the precedents. Beware of any wolf who goes still.
Sun Salutation
It’s the needlessness to this mess that makes it feel so endless,
and unlikely
I’ll live long enough to know why.
I love what you didn’t do with the place.
All the regrets
cross-matrixed to failures,
the piano there to hold up the family portraits,
the pink apple blossoms falling to the sidewalk
as if to destroy us,
like a wildfire jumping a break.
The alley to the road to the capitol runs through me,
and the preposterous,
and in the end, I got exactly what I had coming,
there must be some misunderstanding
say it with me, there must be some misunderstanding.
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