Happy Place
Open twilght with the envelope knife.
Split it open like that gash in Jesus.
Stab the sky in the style of Norman Bates.
Once you're in, pull down with your weight.
Hear the gases leach and the ozone hiss.
Breast stroke into the Torn Sky Hole.
And break through to what you've created.
The entrails of twilight are brilliant,
they burst back into themselves,
as the neon would if the neon could,
if it wasn't trapped by bent glass tubes
in old smokey saloons in towns like yours.
The Happy Place will be there tomorrow.
But only if I bring my envelope knife.
The little answers to little questions
must scurry under furniture on little webbed feet
when somebody decides to look for them.
There hide more answers than I'll ever see,
under things.
Seeing Eye Dogs are the heroes from forgotten generations born again.
The egg, a drippy sun.
The sun, a drippy egg.
I caught the hand that paints the sunsets.
I slapped it on the wrist from my mountain.
It was painting clouds.
That didn't belong.
They were ruining the dinner I was having.
With her.
Don't be a mouse, be a lion
