POEM

The process of change is dreaming that God had a dream—
this is what allows deaf people to hear.
I once had a dear love that must have dwelled nearby a blink from God beneath my
    fingertips.
Polarized inside a bottle of glass, embedded in a color that has yet to be seen.
What is madness anyhow but a hoot, an owl-eyed aligning of a visual perfect circle?
Out of this skull flowers a mirror behind you, like the first time that you beheld
your own features in the looking-glass, glassy-eyed . . . or,
the first time your new neighbor saw you from a distance,
as you carried in furniture, clothing, boxes upon boxes of possessions.
One would think our entire lives were auditioning to make decisions without
    thinking twice—
sequential ranks & performing towards goals that are dismissed by dictatorial
    diction.
Ode to inchlings. I crawl to the finish line like a foregone conclusion—
I’m not looking for sympathy, but if it comes from a man drinking Jack Daniels
for breakfast, that kind of sympathy must be where Rock-N-Roll first got its
    reputation
yet I am here in this damp orchard of accord. perfect démerder of day,
having, at first, succumbed to the Drill Marshall of oppressiveness,
but now, allowing the fruity aromas of this garden of blooms to immerse me,
as if I were standing in Wang Xizhi’s Orchid Pavilion Gathering—
ethereal foray of sprouts, dewy grasses, like broken glass fragments
on assorted blades—breathing, breathing—a tender breath of wind, like musical
    notes,
unfogging the windows of my mind,
this bountiful day of reflective spatial elsewhere.