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John Eivaz
I'm not a spiritual person
A small flywheel that regulates the speed of a spinning wheel
though i'd like to be, i've always had that desire
though that desire might be one of the problems
i also have. even this mulling strengthens the problem,
cloth torn apart rather than held together.
the vulture, the wolf, bunny rabbits, trout
giant oaf or effeminate cardinal, pederast:
it somehow does hold together, i think
and there's another problem, you see? and when,
hours before dawn, i think of a full american breakfast
instead of just coffee, or coffee and oatmeal, something like that or
just can't wait to watch tv, feel inappropriately inspired
or let it all go numb -- well, who hasn't felt life a rag at some
moment?
i'm not spiritual, not even myself, this i know:
so many whorls of crumbling dust, and i'm my own.
Coy Moon as the Concierge
The helicopters in my earth shoes are waiting
but I'm running a little late, the jasmine air is dying
slowly enough, and so I linger until the cold rock
in the sky disappears, until just before dawn
what made me feel small sort of disappears
and there's that guy in that play, you know --
the guy from that teevee show you don't know
but I imagine Celebrity Jasmine and here's my
favorite wall, dying there right on
the tube. Let's get excited, no matter what,
this as good as that. I think
I've written that line sometime before,
maybe more than once, some graffiti on the
upholstery of helicopters taking off
on time, me a little red-faced, out of breath,
whirling my way to you midday sun
giving me the sweats, that's all,
not afraid of flight even if the moon
is no longer there to guide me.
©2008 by John Eivaz
John Eivaz was born in New York and currently lives in California, where
he works at a winery. His writing has appeared on various Web sites,
including numerous past issues of Slow Trains. His chapbook, Remainder
of Thursday Afternoon, can be found at
Lulu.com.
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