I’m a poet your poet I speak sparks
tongue touches roof of mouth tongue
touches teeth voice touches heart to
make at great heat art like a hundred
arc welders lowered to a hundred ears at
every contact point an embryonic star
composed entirely of spoken sparse
roadside flares around the wreck black
stone night sky set with star stuff
flecks Firefly at evening in a summer
park flashlight shaken searchlight
swinging at the coming dark take them
all but leave a spark and I will
recreate for you the fire in its
entirety the conflagration hole the
blaze and Gandhi’s lowered eyes the
blaze and Martin Luther King Jr’s soul
for if truth is a fire and facts are
flames then the seed of them both is the
same a spark the spark we dare to speak
the spark we dare to bury in the pit of
despair to grow a fruit tree a fire
fruit tree for the pit of that fruit is
American hope if a spark is a point then
the point of this evening so close to
threat level midnight is an encounter
that will contour us into a shape of
fire that redefines our blind spots
we must control-alt-delete who we are
and become as children and challenge
ourselves to dream of a soul strummed at
the speed of life when we translate the
message of another’s pain what we mine
is a new cure for our own if every spark
is a potential perspective let us coach
ourselves so that inside empowers out
let us enrich ourselves with this
invisible currency poetry I came here to
speak the varieties of fire match head
meeting strikes trip in a lover’s tryst
poetry sparked by wild worded bliss
desire sparked by a napalm kiss what’s
this cinematic kinetic a crackle of
static throwing off sparks with every
shiver of the anklets and now the rhythm
and now the rhyme and now the footwork
keeping time a spark or flame that’s
worth the name though on a wick or in a
brain the well contained is never tame
and in the engine of a plane or in a
voice box is the same the spark that
whispered to you burn the dream that
refused to be ash in the urn the fuse
that is dreaming the season will turn
explodes in the body of dance the body
that these words romance for art alone
is where the sparks at home and here
upon this stage tonight the dance is the
wife of the poem now watch her ignite
you
tongue touches roof of mouth tongue
touches teeth voice touches heart to
make at great heat art like a hundred
arc welders lowered to a hundred ears at
every contact point an embryonic star
composed entirely of spoken sparse
roadside flares around the wreck black
stone night sky set with star stuff
flecks Firefly at evening in a summer
park flashlight shaken searchlight
swinging at the coming dark take them
all but leave a spark and I will
recreate for you the fire in its
entirety the conflagration hole the
blaze and Gandhi’s lowered eyes the
blaze and Martin Luther King Jr’s soul
for if truth is a fire and facts are
flames then the seed of them both is the
same a spark the spark we dare to speak
the spark we dare to bury in the pit of
despair to grow a fruit tree a fire
fruit tree for the pit of that fruit is
American hope if a spark is a point then
the point of this evening so close to
threat level midnight is an encounter
that will contour us into a shape of
fire that redefines our blind spots
we must control-alt-delete who we are
and become as children and challenge
ourselves to dream of a soul strummed at
the speed of life when we translate the
message of another’s pain what we mine
is a new cure for our own if every spark
is a potential perspective let us coach
ourselves so that inside empowers out
let us enrich ourselves with this
invisible currency poetry I came here to
speak the varieties of fire match head
meeting strikes trip in a lover’s tryst
poetry sparked by wild worded bliss
desire sparked by a napalm kiss what’s
this cinematic kinetic a crackle of
static throwing off sparks with every
shiver of the anklets and now the rhythm
and now the rhyme and now the footwork
keeping time a spark or flame that’s
worth the name though on a wick or in a
brain the well contained is never tame
and in the engine of a plane or in a
voice box is the same the spark that
whispered to you burn the dream that
refused to be ash in the urn the fuse
that is dreaming the season will turn
explodes in the body of dance the body
that these words romance for art alone
is where the sparks at home and here
upon this stage tonight the dance is the
wife of the poem now watch her ignite
you
Please follow and like us: