Reading for Segue Poetry Foundation, 2017
With a lighted magnifying glass, I illuminate the line of brown glitter that runs through the landscapes on each page of my book. I read a bit of my poem, I turn the page, and repeat:
This is what it feels like in the end.
Up shit creek.
Drifting down this brown chunky stream,
in boat with no paddle.
Take a glance down Into the murky liquid.
As you get close to a black hole,
everything gets weird.
As a black hole spins,
it drags matter and light into a whirlpool.
The faster it spins, the more violent the whirl,
as it warps space-time around it.
The closest stuff to earth is lightning.
You're looking for meaning
in things that have no meaning.
If you squint your eyes you can not tell that its fake.
This is what it feels like in the end.
Carry water in a basket.
Chop wood with a pocket knife.
Shining a flashlight into a black hole.
Gravity wins everytime.
So we Hold on to the rock against the current.
Just to stay in one place and not float down this brown chunky stream.
Like
walking up a crowded down escalator.
This is what it feels like in the end.
Navel gazing looking at your own hole.
Circle that drain.
This is what it feels like in the end.
