rickshawed & telescoping

Cover Image


probability is a tricky corridor of mathematics
that says in all likelihood
the star that you just wished on
ages ago,
and it has taken you this long to see it,

& maybe this is why wishes are not always granted
until the echo of your bedframe voice finally revolves;
full circle,
from launch pad to moon base
and back;
airborne; like strategy;
a wish is only as good as the idea
that everything we do now effects the outcome,

but several of us went stalemate somewhere in our youth
forgetting what it was to make believe with non-believers,

how our bedroom ceilings were home to the only heavens we ever needed,

the night sky to me represents a stellar probability
that if god is up there; somewhere, thinking,
than in all likelihood he is now or was at some point an astronaut,
who in his spare time, out of boredom, bedazzled the sky
with glitter;

& what curious little men we are now or were at some point,
with curious little telescopes
looking up into that curious black hole
looking for answers
in the form of large-scale inconveniences;

viewing our spinal column as an upside down question mark,
with brain just a dot sitting on top,

i am ocean water brought to life
by the fact that there are no coincidences
and we were all brought here for reason
as simple
as knowing
that we were in fact brought here
for a reason.

brought here, like cargo on freightliner, to this place.

carried here, like weather in storm cloud, to this moment.

knowing that time and spatial distance,
in all the crevasses of all existence,
are based entirely on perspective,
i like to picture us from the moon;
imagine that we’re only inches apart

& you can still talk to me like typewriter
bang your presence against me like continental drift,
ignore the spacebar
spell out your present promises in the form of run-on sentences;


& here we are now, a lot like the night sky
when it hugs the earth with its infinite dark arms,
at night, asleep, the gap between us is vast as space,
void of presence,
but still
like comforter


& i, like wordsmith astronomer extraordinaire,
could fill one lane of highway
between dotted white and solid yellow,
from st. petersburg, florida up to lynn, massachusetts;
college ruled and single spaced,
with synonyms
that could never accurately describe the distance
we cover with wanting

this! is not magnetic poetry,
this is not one word at a time,
this is an ocean of cursive coarse words,
lapping you,
so be adjective and hold on to noun
because i’m a lot like gravity
when i never

& tonight, when we piggyback; when i lift you up on shoulders
and carry you back to the fortress we made with hope and blankets,
look up at ceiling stickered starlight and want for nothing more,
think of nothing beyond it
be happy without wishing
and hug me

like a solar system holds its center;

not necessarily forever,

but for reason.




Created: Mar 21, 2011


phrankie Document Media