Pretty New Landscape

 

It's important to make a sure

sound. It's not impossible you know.

It's just funny I suppose, like being

in a dream of another dream.

 

All these things could be mashed and tumbled

together to make us one big

clay hero, someone not afraid to

get up and speak in a

 

normal voice, his or her own.

That's all I've ever wanted, to

be a real boy of my

own making, but there are so many

 

versions floating around on every surface

that you start to feel boxed

in, like you're dying inside. Like

you're not going to make it

 

without a beautiful blue fairy being on

your side. You should tell someone

who cares, when you get the chance, about the sure sound

thing, I bet they might want

 

to hear about it, especially if

it's worth a real hearty laugh

session together. All I've got to

offer you now is this hand,

 

full of the wrong torn out

poems and not much else, to

make a pretty new landscape out of. 

You're in it, and if you're willing,

 

I'll give it a good try. I

might even make a friendly pony out

of wild flower stalks for you, but it's

more likely to be just a broken

 

over tree, laden with psychedelic owls.

I do like my clouds, generally

speaking, and most stars are okay—

because they always make you aware

 

of the repetition of roofs, and

roofs always tell the best time-tested

stories of all. Still you can dance on

top of them for hours. And then

 

you can lean against the willing

moon all night long, and eat

cheese and drink wine. Well. That's

kind of the lazy sort of plan, one

 

way that's not been felt to

be so far away from the

buttery truth any more. I'm afraid I'm still

falling. That's for sure. Is that

 

my surest sound then? How long

did you fall? Perhaps I'll just

open the tiny gate a bit,

and let the grey pony out to graze

 

anywhere it wants. It knows where

home is, which is a little

more than I can say about

myself right now. I'm still falling!

 

And after all this time! How

many more ways can I implore

you? Even Alice eventually hits ground.

(There're no Angels--it's all just people.) 

Bonus poem:

How to Run Your Business in Cold Blood, or Bullets For Peace, or The Scope of the Greed

1.15 Million Americans Have Been Killed by Guns Since John Lennon's Death

 

They took a cowardly shot

at Paris. They shot a tired,

generous, smiling John in

the Daddy back. Just saying.

A semi-automatic

gun isn't made to kill an

unarmed rabbit for supper

for a hungry family

of six. They shot the gifted,

young Kennedys through the head.

They shot poor Martin on a

motel porch. They shot up a

bunch of school kids like paper

dolls. Movie goers were killed

without feeling anything

like goodwill or remorse. A

guy covered up his girlfriend

with his own physical life

and died in the hail. A man

and his wife opened fire on

their friends and coworkers in

spite of an innocently

sleeping baby at home. But

we're not allowed to talk guns.

We can buy guns, more than we'll

ever need. That couple had

a house full. Bullets are a

good business. Solid. You

know what's no longer solid?

The sound of crying. It's now

become a pool. Everybody

wants in. And I'm out. 

The Planned Parenthood shooter

murdered somebody's adult

babies for the unborn ones.

Guns don't make you better. Guns

don't make you right. Guns don't make

you smarter. Guns aren't the proof

you need. Guns don't give you the

right to judge and condemn those

who disagree with your head.

Guns are weapons, pure, simple.

On the news feed you see the

would be robber put his gun

against the innocent man's

temple and pull the trigger

over and over--the gun

was jammed--but he didn't stop

trying and neither should we.