Who has time for poetry month,
to search the salt for blood,
to build a house from fire,
to tame the dead with verses?
Parablas de los muertos, you must wait
because the poet must pay his taxes,
do his laundry, balance his checkbook,
be more bones than phantom.
To any poet blessed with time
I left my laptop open glowing white,
that arid fluorescence, that sand of lost mirages.
Face it if you dare.
Perhaps a millipede will scale the screen,
meet that pugnacious blinking line,
and like so many lost before him
succumb to her demands.
He’ll burrow into the portal of diodes
where his body will writhe poetic:
not enough decay to feed me…
ah, fear the toads…
Not knowing what to write next
he’ll coil into himself— like so many before him—
his body will be an emblem of verse—
a spiral of centripetal meter—
a syntheses of flora and death.
Congratulations, this is poetry,
the blue ribbon panel will tell him.
You are the stone incarnate with stars.