I wonder, if I stayed out
after the clouds poured empty,
would I grow crystals, sulpherous green
on my skin? If I held very, very still
would my lungs turn to crackling noise
my eyes to quartz
my body a statue,
fossilized?
I once saw a magician
perform a trick I’d seen before. I cried out
that there was a mirror, this was no ESP,
clapped my hands and gleefully waited
for my echoes to fade, for him to perform something new
because now that the easy tricks were out of the way, he could improve.
After all, why would he show us quaint parlor tricks
when magic would do? His face was unreadable
and I didn’t understand why he didn’t show us more—
why that trickless magician was still standing there
in his star-and-patchwork robe, audienceless, staring at a kid
who thought they knew the world.
There’s a copper taste when I leave the bath.
I dunk my head, fill my sinuses
with soap. I think if I stayed there I’d grow
like quartz in seawater. Or maybe my skin would degrade,
fleck away in bloodless strips, the tonguing of whaleskin by a remnant sea.
Maybe there’s nothing to be said
about the music of the world, but why not
send your first-grade art to Paris and see what happens?
Call it Innocence in Pastel and Crayon, Mixed Media Portraits
Memories Blurred, Laughter Keeping On. Write a book
and donate it to a library. Carve an avocado pit and sell it
for free to a stranger at a garage sale. Plant morning glories
in watering cans, put those on the sidewalk. Erect a wet floor sign
at the bus stop, draw a puddle in chalk.
My roommate says when they buy a house, they’ll keep it up
without installing a waterfall. And I say,
make that waterfall. Plant plains grasses. Build a climbing gym
in your living room. Construct a statue to an old god
on your porch, cover your bedroom plexiglass
with rainbow prisms to dazzle the sun.
There’s a fine line between burning an hour
and spending it, hard cash, for joy and weirdness.
Who likes concrete blocks
without a graffiti sunrise? There's an ivy-strewn whale skeleton
hanging in a lecture hall. Tiger lilies on rooftops,
weird art on porch ledges, ferns in bookshelves. I think next time it rains
I’ll go outside and feel the droplets on my face. Maybe
I’ll turn to gemstones. Maybe in the pantry
is last winter’s cocoa, and it’ll be all the sweeter
for remembering the snow.
I was taking a bath and a bunch of ideas came to me all at once. I clung to the words I had like a drowning sailor to a raft. After the bath, I rushed to my laptop and spent 45 minutes writing it down, adjusting, rewriting, creating. Here is the product. There's always room for wonder in life. Enjoy!