Words present us with little pictures of things

 

 

 

So how is it possible to mean anything you say

 

 

 

I feel like a circle: perfect in theory and impossible in reality

 

 

 

The days keep getting shorter and shorter

 

 

 

While the names of the months get longer

 

 

 

The cat looks out the window

 

 

 

The universe vibrates at B-flat

 

 

 

Time disappears into the seams of being

 

 

 

I glide like Gumby through the office

 

 

 

And pretty soon this too will be a memory

 

 

 

Mike Tyson: “I’m always quoting my heroes, it’s never me talking”

 

 

 

Mike Tyson: “I want his heart—I want to eat his children—Praise be to Allah”

 

 

 

Ted Berrigan: “I like credit cards”

 

 

 

Something crawls across my floor

 

 

 

My door makes a sad noise

 

 

 

It’s what no one knows about you that allows you to know yourself

 

 

 

Allen Iverson stepping over Tyrone Lue

 

 

 

But this isn’t a poem with an answer

 

 

 

It’s about the fractal nature of money

 

 

 

The space between voids

 

 

 

Grey light on even greyer stones

 

 

 

More pigeon than dove

 

 

 

But some dove

 

 

 

The courtyard is silent

 

 

 

The sound of your own blood circulating

 

 

 

The night is cold and our passion for living is not well understood

 

 

 

My mind is tiny—I don’t care

 

 

 

I’m tired of comparisons

 

 

 

I get off the train and walk in the wrong direction

 

 

 

Trees rustle above my head

 

 

 

The entire office buzzing with Amber Alerts

 

 

 

They fired Scott

 

 

 

They fired Alex

 

 

 

Now I’m emailing someone named Michael Jordan

 

 

 

Dear Michael Jordan,

 

 

 

My name is Andrew Weatherhead

 

 

 

I feel like a standardized test

 

 

 

Every Friday I’m asked “what are you doing this weekend”

 

 

 

And every Monday I’m asked “what did you do this weekend”

 

 

 

It’s Thursday

 

 

 

A baby just walked past my cubicle

 

 

 

Writing poetry is easy