What if I just stopped
trying so hard
and just let the love,
knocking at the door,
inside?
A dangerous question…
Small gestures
are having Richter waves
in and out of this body-
a student’s obligatory email
wishing me a good day
suddenly is seen for the kindness it contains
and when some angry words are muttered
in the grocery store line,
out of her own pain,
I sigh, so kind!
Living in the seat of now
helps me to see all I overlooked before
but this seat is also hot,
an electric chair.
Will I burst into flames
sitting here too often?
It feels so, at the tender edge,
where death by combustion is certain.
Running from the fire
of our own beauty
and peace
is a silly and dramatic pretense.
It feels like
there’s nothing left to say
about anything other than that.
Now, I’m only able to return to the hot seat
10,000 times a day.
My charring is on the menu.
Every face that enters my world, my mirror,
every bee that buzzes and stings, as well.
Every watermelon too heavy to carry,
it’s thickness a testament
to the persistence and strength
for the will of matter and life,
inedible from my palate,
yet still holding up its end
of a cycle
from seed to fruit to seed
sown in soil
of waste turning into food,
given time.
I think I am.
I perceive this world as broken
but as I stretch beyond myopia
I see the world rightly aflame,
but really, I am,
and
you are, aren’t you?
Life happens on the skin
and in the sinew
Down to the cells holding
an agreement of flesh together
which we forget to register.
Pat your belly
and eat the watermelon
and feel
what is here
now, right here
that close.
So simple,
the fire
of your existence.
Life as Improv 