Yet let not each gay Turn thy Rapture move,
For Fools Admire, but Men of Sense Approve;
As things seem large which we thro’ Mists descry,
Dulness is ever apt to Magnify. -Alexander Pope
So much energy. People buying watermelons, boarding airplanes, watching their parents die, and writing poems about it while above throbs the celestial. I love how sadness can turn celebratory, the childlike apocalyptic. Bees return to their hives, freighted with nectars. Shadows rise from the mud, flinging back their wet hair and even though this seashell is very small, it's still singing about the void. Often great tension arises between sincerity and rhetoricity imposing vague profundities. Outside a man is failing to push-start his car, albeit a very polished car. Remember how rash Apollo was even while inventing calculus? He did it to impress ome skinny kid milking a goat after all. Let's not forget the head in the furnace, how burning is laughing and laughing is also crying out. When my father died, I saw his spirit snag in a tree, a woman running across a parking lot, windows full of smoke. When my father died, his spirit snagged in a tree then left behind its last body of plastic bags. I saw the sky wring its blue until it cracked and oils leaked out. I thought I was seeing everything and could turn off the whte light with a switch. Even is it's only skin-deep, once you derive the area, consider how the skin goes into the ears, behind the eyes, down the throat, that's an awful lot of beauty. Satellite dishes in every yard, shiny shiny stars. I'd like to be completely free but I want everything to belong to me. You fall upon the roses of life and bleed and people think you're a fool. But later, at the cash bar, the disputants are transformed by the lips of their eyes, the sex organs of exhaled smoke. Once someone tried to sell me a surge protector for every room. Once a praying mantis chrysalis hatched in my desk.