morning

This morning (again, technically yesterday morning), I reveled in the words and images that were beginning poetry month for me.

morning

why are my feet on the ceiling?

why do I float around pushing buttons, blue, red, orange

why do I kiss my fingers, ache for my mother, act dumb, dumb, dumb?

why wake in all this skin, these memories?

why walk back the days?

how do I go back to quiet?

boom, boom, whenever the static goes silent

the morning moon splashing intrusion

my fingers lizarding the walls

play on my playground for me, please, while I—

walk on my back like a child massage, please, while I—

funnel the world into the echo room, hot mangoes,

the air is only sounds on my tongue