Human
In memory of David Lynch
It’s a strange, messy business. Living.
I find myself enamored
by the evidence
reasons for breath
that insist on reinvention.
Someone, presumably a child,
wrote the word “BEES” in white chalk
on the side of their house.
Like an idea of extinction
present in the landscape
birds staring with such silent eyes.
I dreamt my coffee maker
was wired to the moon
and by adjusting its phases
I altered the strength of the brew.
The next night I was having sex
with my dog.
Nonsensical as an ear in the grass
listening for the murmurs
of the hungry worms,
their bristly setae and primitive ambulance
its own language of craving.
My heart is a river
of amorphous forms, yearning
to be something whole and unique.
The first monkey learning to speak.
It said to me, being yourself
is enough.
Don’t pretend that something so obvious
is profound.
Think of nothing
and hold that thought,
like a newborn growing lukewarm
in the rusty trunk of a Ford.
Hold it until it lives again,
and swaddle it in red curtains.
Never let it die.
