Things to be grateful for in April 2018


My wife, Oh gosh my wife,
Who pacifies me in more ways than one,

My words, the economy and the surfeit,
The flow and the ebb,

The undercurrents that make
The rivers flow, just like lyrical words,

Every American journal,
That gives me an honest chance, with

No prejudice, or neglect,
For every poem that like a surfboard

Climbs on the waves, and hijacks
The momentum, and lets

The surf coast to the awaiting beach,
Paving way for jellyfish and seashells,

To gather, shells that hear the ocean
Through the carvings, that too

Lyrical, and every poem
That I have not given birth to,

Every poem half done, halfway
Across a page, searching

For the perfect ending. Every
Attempt at an illusionary perfection, every

Time a sandcastle is built
With hunger and resolve and need,

Every hashtag that accompanies
A poem or an entry,

The spring, the coiled types
On mattresses or beneath words,

And the change of cherry blossoms,
Ushering in Hanami.

My parents who listen to my poetry,
My biggest fans, the celebration

Of arranged words, good enough for
The perfect surf, how words

Have their own momentum,
I create the spectacle, the balance,

Letting ink, like the surf chick, get bigger and brighter,
On a paper surfboard, how that moment

When the wave ends, and
You’re now ready to put the pen down,

Comes like shallow end of the ocean,
To ponder in reflection,

And perhaps meditate on beauty,
The type that sprays on,

The other side of a lens,
To paint the canvas of the eye,

The non-cliché, the unforeseen,
The abstraction, the lyrical oomph,

The sex appeal, of the billowing brine,
The crashing waves, the joyride,

How every poem metamorphoses
Right before your magnetized eyes,

To words in strip tease.

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