This is a poem from a wonderful woman. I don’t know her, but she paints these massive gorgeous canvases with her words, to the point where I don’t ever want to stop reading.

Absorb this.

jaywalking the moon

“poetry–” i say
with a heavy exclamation mark
“has no value in itself”,

& poets?

just think of the statues in the parks,
ivy winding ’round copper rusted cheeks,
rapt eyes twisted skyward, frill-sleeved,
quill in meditative folded,

manicured & languid hands,
i prefer my poets dirty, dangling
with disordered clothes on helicopter skids,
rubbing outcast’s shoulders &

ask the lady at the supermarket check out
“what ya thinking about poetry?”,

she looks at me while pulling
butter, milk, a whole grain bread
over the scanner, bags under her eyes,
“you’re paying with your card?”

“it doesn’t feed me”

& in the car, i shovel words (dang, they’re
everyWhere– ) on the backseat, overSized,
reduNDant, underPaid&lightWeight, puFFed
panting in the driver seat, &

blurred, between frozen fish,
cashew nuts and fennel tea, see Burns,
rOLling raPtured eyes and somewhere
in the spinning is…

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