Cassandra Folds My Poem in Her Hand and Loses Her Heart in the Process

Ours is but the very small effort being made here.
But it's a good enough keeper for all of us
to always remember off. All the tins that
aren't really going to save us
from starving, now are neatly arranged all around, just
in case, stacked according to their
rightful places in the beautiful candle lit 
mystery of life's jumping car seat. All we can do is
mirror the unexplained pangs of
so much wintry thought in our empty heads, then abiding joy in our own sudden awakenings within. It's like us, waving from boxes, like little mechanical maniacs,

only from a much more aesthetic
window frame.It's like saying
here I made this tiny funny thing to get to know you somewhat better
but I guess it doesn't turn anything
over--not unless everything everywhere
also means something other
than this terrible life we're still having to tote around. That's the pretty some
of us continue to wear above
our thorny crowns. It's to show that we always believe
there's an answer going on somewhere in the conversation, so

we'll keep our cool dreams in the front ends of our warm pockets
with the broken seashells and all the old pennies. I dearly
love all the well spent pennies! They've seen so much already, you know,
and traveled such far distances. Let's
go inside together, inward I mean, I hear it's
an amazing party, still happening over there, hey, at least it's free.
We should dance. Oh I love this mad mad
mad sound that only comes out like this
whenever we're alone together. I
suppose I shall cry into your arms some day.But.But but. That won't

be the real me, being all the way into the music's embrace anymore, will it
though, and that's just plain weird to me now. But for now we're all us--
gathered inside the story's borders, like scribbled notes on envelopes, just say okay? That's not
a question, it's a response to too
many words pouring up and over my head's sloppy rim. Too much you in my heart. Too much myself as well.
To the awful drying air in here that's squeezing my throat shut with an elephant for a handkerchief. I do want to cry right now, if you don't mind that is,
I do. I can feel just like it right this very minute. But (I swear) I don't want you to look at me.
If you look I'll only seem silly,
like I'm trying to pee in
an unfamiliar forest.





2 bonus poems:


How a Poet Puts on His Pants

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