a poet died today.
someone in canada asked,
what’s a poet?
it’s a humming bird
that knows
many different languages.
why?
for no reason at all.
it’s tomorrow,
another poet
died.
where did the poet live?
on bourbon street.
what did she do?
she stuffed hot sounds
into a flaming trumpet,
the trumpet burned
every night until morning.
what did the people do?
they danced and jumped and pushed air
out of their bodies until they looked like
clothes with no people.
it’s monday in Zakopane,
another poet died,
the city is covered in polish tears,
poems display unbearable sadness.
everyone is kneeling,
looking into the mountains.
the poems go on and on,
the poets keep running their mouths,
nobody cares about hope and love.
elephants begin to thunder
they don’t know their own worth.
without mouths there is no lionroar,
without phrases ostriches run in endless circles,
without fire there are no stories,
there are only dangerous piannissimos.
everyone is waiting
everyone is waiting
everyone is waiting