Saturday, January 15, 2011

I can't find my birth certificate anywhere. Maybe I misremembered being born.

And I'm finding poem instead which are stalling me, like thigh-deep snow...



POEM FOR EMILY DICKINSON AND LESBIAN WHALE WATCHING


         "YOU HAVE 173,481,667,225,137,487,608 UNANSWERED MESSAGES. PLEASE ENTER YOUR PASS CODE NOW."


I am watching whales off Gloucester in my latest afterlife.
Whale-voyeur! My gay-cliched, almost lesbian afterlife!
I vow to somehow see these stupid humpbacks as model citizens.
That's part of the coursework of being human. I don't want
an epiphany here, a poem as crocheted blanket.
The whales are enough, three feeding together,
blowing green harvest-bubbles that tickle and sphere
silver sea-commuters to the surface, in froth, to be seined
in huge toothbrushy mouths. What a sexy way to die!
We are drifting over a body which can contain all others
and their cries. Credit card forgetting therapy.
Nature is too busy for apologies. You could learn this.
Did you guess poetry is only nature's funny answering machine?
Emily Dickinson was a stalker. Count the messages she left!
Funny MFAs look at your belated coldness, your waves,
your pre-recorded message. Copycat stalkers. Your refusal
to answer suitors, human xeroxes. Your bored ocean.

Your sarcastically endless rewind tune

and long fuckoff beep.

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