Fried Chicken & Philosophy

 

Warm and live

it settles for a moment

before the eyes and hands

find a rhythm.

 

The body is ballet

on orbit to the sun.

 

All mouths bow down

and stop their chants

while the seams

leap frog

one after another until

a cotton cord dimension

hisses and snaps.

 

Eyes applaud

and fast break to a space

between swish and transition.

 

Groans heard

as the moment twists into the flesh.

Upraised hands give glory

and joy dances with intensity

until the ball is touched again.

 

My hands ache as I tie their shoes

they lean upon my neck.

I cannot throw them off

nor carry them.

I am older now

but Sunday

is cross country wings

and measure nothing.

 

I listen to them laugh and breathe.

I hear my heart and theirs.

I am older now

their faces shiver

when I run

and suggest a nap

but my heart

wants to metronome a pace

that spaces out my life.

It surges up the hills

currents me like a river to the sea.

Though I am older now

I must have always run.

 

On Sunday afternoons

when grass and god are everywhere

I am a prayer between them

because I run

and I am young again. 

I watch the leave shimmer
in the light and grow
and die and I suppose
that when the earth
gives up
its diadems that this
has a cosmology to it
As when the river rushes
to suicide so quiet
that no sound is breeched
but still
there is rebirth

I swing out
on a natural arc
that returns me
broken brilliantly
like so many copper pennies
I ask you
is this the depth of it
Shall I cast a net
bring back those commended to the deep
or should I sow
the sorrows that I reap
is it better to sew
mouths shut
capturing odd stones
or should we brook
all things in a sputter
based on spark and circumstance

I follow this natural arc
all rainbows have right angles
I return to tidal pools
by eclipsing one eye
then both
each a handful
of water and light
each a dream wing
that means nothing without another

I swing out
and it returns me
fractured
as a pebble busted pond

I swing out
as I do I follow the natural arc
a meter
a time
a space between some joy
or pain
that has a reason to be
more that a gaudy bauble
I hang upon your breasts
a natural arc
I follow to conclusion
do I ask how full
the measure or the season
or do I hurl
into the curve
and does the crowd
sigh
for more.