hit me
the cutoff man
to step into that hurricane daunt of history
to learn where it came from
to try to to understand the threads?
writers are
runners handing us charged batons
they drop dead and we run through
all weathers (they change in our hands)
we write rain
we write sun
sing badly of hail dents et
cetera die in the gorge
ous snow
wanting to know where all this came from
requires like retching a beautiful meal and
organizing the chunks in a neat lab
to learn the recipe
like which of the just-landed
to interview and how
to feel californian gold
sparkling up out of my swishing pan
which sparkling sands to sift of all possible
i read poems like a prospector
who hasn't made much of a living otherwise
too universally bad greed was there
looking into the riverwater also
there
zaps history
writers run the runny sky thunders we
will carry the right to words will
take it off their hands
a like ball way back there in spacetime was thrown
and caught and thrown and on so the ball
star planet moon fruit proton
by this tiny and humongous arc of now has come
quite a way indeed
their vectors are the storm of history
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