Douglas Cole
When your head breaks open like a bee’s nest
shattered on the ground, all those thoughts
going in all directions with shadows like national flags,
when you shake free from the cloud of unknowing
and the crazy cave people roaming the country
destroying the buildings of the institutions,
when the dust settles and your first impulse is
to climb back and breathe life into another form,
I say stay a moment here at the resort of pure sky
beyond the beggar’s moon and the feast of suns
because soon enough you’ll hear the clang of the locks
and the sweet moan that starts your beating heart.
I had a little trick to keep
the rest of you from knowing—
when I reached the end of the food line,
I’d lean in and pretend to pay,
as I told the cafeteria lady my name,
so she could check it on the free lunch list—
this is how I learned to be an illusionist
Sound of a baby crying,
very faint but very clear,
crickets showing up dead
on the back porch,
as if dropped from the sky
or blown in from the West.
Something is out of alignment,
but what and how to fix it?
I’m dreaming only in Spanish,
me destino es entrar
con alegria este aeropuerto.
We are only sound after all.
La Luna illumina la noche,
I like to say it then it's true.
Faces coming out of the wall,
saying, this way, or how are you?
Bamboo wind chimes not far off,
can paradise be close behind?