i have written
i write
i am a writer
...i am writer.
“El Creacionismo”
A little God.
Un pequeño Dios.
Vicente says that he’s a little God
and so I want to be a little God, too.
To create.
My job under this title that I have given to myself
a poet
Is to
1st, create
And then create
And later continue to create again and again over and over and over
Tiny birds that chirp sweet songs and fly in lines
One behind the other
And only rest to bathe in tiny puddles
Hidden within the clouds
To create images that move and sway
within wooden frames on accent walls
in homes fashioned after IKEA pages
rented by Tyler Durdens in cities everywhere
(before the explosion but well into the insomnia).
And tired eyes will watch my creations jump down
and dance about the floors
because when I create, I do not believe in limitations.
Those, I save for my own life,
my own days
walking in squares, turning sharply at corners
and tripping over cracks in the pavement
pausing but not retarding the prospect of creation.
CREATE
To make
To have something become
In the palm of my hand,
By the stroke of my pen,
In the midst of my thoughts,
Pushed through the gaps of my teeth,
By the strength of my tongue in the still of
His night
, underneath
His full moon, in
His vast blue black sky, on
His grand green-hilled Earth.
And I have seen those hills and
with hands stretched high admit that
I am a little God in only
The greatest exaggeration
The fullest inflation
The littlest and whitest lie.
What are my trees that grow melodies which can be picked
and juiced into lovemaking soundtracks and college night anthems?
What are my blue cheese moon flowers that grow in hidden fields
behind hidden castles for the perfect guilty pleasure midnight snack?
What are my bubbling frothy cappuccino-foam snowmen
or my honey swollen tears for comforting a crying mouth
Next to His ocean
that waves to the shore and then swallows men whole with no apology?
Beside His woman
Who takes in man, keeps him warm, inhales his seed and grows a life?
Alongside His rain, that feeds the thirsty land and
His winds, that blow over trees 100 years rooted in
I am… just a poet
a photographer who tries to capture an image with colorful metaphors and alliterated metonyms.
a painter whose paint can blend a million times and still miss the exact hue of the original.
a sculptor whose chisel just can’t tap out the bump in the nose.
a potter with shaky fingers and a lopsided rim.
What I’ve created is mine, imperfect and flawed
Far from the work of a God
But
Words on a page
An image in your mind
A feeling in your <3
A whisper in your ear
A tickle on your skin
A kiss on your forehead
A kiss on your mouth
A hand to hold
A pacifier
An homage to what’s great
A tribute
A plaque in a walking garden
A statue erected on a street intersection
A fountain of cherubs with tiny full bladders
A monument. An anecdote. A dedication page
A re-creation.
A poem.
