Experimenting with Something Miraculous
I’m going for no singed fingers this time around.
Can anyone hope for better?
The neighbor girl still sticks her tongue out at me
whenever I walk by wearing my tinfoil trousers.
One day, she may see the light and join me.
I can’t worry about that now.
There is so much to juggle in these shadowy times.
As they say, when trouble troubles me I trouble trouble.
I don’t really know what that means in a metaphysical sense,
but I’ve always kept my squirt gun close at hand
and my buffed-up shoes pointed in a direction of a big day of judgment.
I figure that all the peculiar punishment promised
in the threads of inspirational poetry will come at ground level.
Someone has been at the corner fetching all the Angels’ whispers.
A ukulele God comes down from the mountaintop with a whistle in his guts.
I found trauma sewn inside the lining of my dad’s smoking jacket.
We all took shots at the public piñata growing on the steps of the library.
Classmates stumble over the boredom that bears down on real genius.
Miracles are said to have voluptuous centers.
I need to graze in the arms of all the shiny miracles that have
muscled their way into the hemisphere that brings comfort to pilgrims.
Standing without a disappearing clemency toward my spiritual burden,
I am flush with a dozen doses of male bravado at the ready.
Going unapologetic, I push experimenting like a celestial pilgrim
and take control of the unsurmountable in the clear light of a rapturous day.
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